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A    DREAM    OF    BLUE   ROSES 


A  DREAM 
OF  BLUE  ROSES 


BY 

MRS.    HUBERT   BARCLAY 

AUTHOR    OF 
"TREVOR    LORDSHIP,"    "  THE    GIANT    FISHER,"    ETC. 


TORONTO 

THE  MUSSON   BOOK   COMPANY   LIMITED 

LONDON:   HODDER  &  STOUGHTON 


Richard  Clay  &  Sons,  Limited, 

brunswick  street,  stamford  street,  s>bit 

and  buncay,  suffolk. 


STACK 
ANNEX 


TO 

A.  W.  F. 

IN   GRATITUDE   AND   AFFECTION 


CONTENTS 


rAGB 

CHAPTER   I 
A    DECI-SION    AND    A    PROPOSAL I 


CHAPTER  II 
AN   OLD   STORY -9 

CHAPTER  III 
DAYS    GONE   BY ■  .  .IT 


CHAPTER  IV 
NEXT   MARKET   DAY 28 

CHAPTER   V 
KINDLY    MEETING 36 

CHAPTER  VI 

THE   LAST   DAY 44 

vii 


viii  CONTENTS  I 

\ 

PAGE  ' 

CHAPTER  VII  ! 

THE   SAILING    OF   THE  ARGOSY    .  .  .  .  .  .  52       i 

1 

i 
CHAPTER  Vni 

BLUB   ROSES 60       ! 


CHAPTER    IX  I 

NEW   FRIENDS .  .  .         72       ' 

CHAPTER  X  ' 

HOPES   RENEWED 84       | 

j 
CHAPTER  XI  I 

ST.    ETHEL'S 91 

i 

I 

CHAPTER  XII 
CONFIDENCES 99      j 

i 
i 
CHAPTER  XIII 

MRS.   SEPTIMUS   WAGHORN  .  .  .  .  .  .       I07 

1 

CHAPTER  XIV  .     ' 

CLARENCE U?       i 


CONTENTS  k 


CHAPTER  XV  ''*°' 

A    SECOND   ATTEMPT  .  .  .  .  .  ,  .127 


CHAPTER  XVI 
fiddler's  green 


CHAPTER  XVII 

THE    SISTERS 


CHAPTER  XIX 
STEPHEN   GRANT 


CHAPTER  XX 
ONLY    A    SONG      .... 


CHAPTER  XXI 
FLORA    MOULTRIE         .  .  . 


CHAPTER  XXII 
JEAN   PAUL  .... 


140 


150 


CHAPTER  XVIII 
AN   AFTERNOON   OUT ,g- 


174 


185 


204 


X  CONTENTS 


PAGE 

CHAPTER   XXIII 
FAIR   DAY 219 


CHAPTER  XXIV 
VOICES    IN   THE   NIGHT 

CHAPTER  XXV 

fancy's  farm 245 

CHAPTER  XXVI 
THE   PARTY 259 

CHAPTER   XXVII 
AN   UNEXPECTED   GUEST 270 

CHAPTER  XXVIII 
"  BETTER,    NANCY,    BETTER  !  " 280 

CHAPTER  XXIX 
A   FOREIGN    ENVELOPE  

CHAPTER  XXX 
THE  BIGGEST  THING  ,  .  .  .  .  .  .      303 


CONTENTS 

CHAPTER  XXXI 
LITTLE   WINGS   OF   ANGELS 

CHAPTER   XXXII 
A   DISCOVERY 

CHAPTER  XXXIII 
Barbara's  fortune 


315 


328 


338 


CHAPTER    I 

A   DECISION  AND   A   PROPOSAL 

"  Lachen,  Weinen,  Lust  und  Schmertz 
Sind  Geschwister-Kinder.'' 

Goethe. 

Petite  Mere  leaned  forward  in  her  chair,  and,  placing 
both  her  hands  on  the  shoulders  of  the  girl  who  knelt 
beside  her,  said  gently — 

"Eh  bien  !  ma  tille,  so  it  must  be,  since  thou  wilt  have 
it  so  !  " 

"Ah!  No,  Petite  Mere,"  was  the  quick  reply,  "say 
not  so  !  Thou  knowest  it  is  not  I  would  have  it  so  ! 
Loved  one  do  not  cry — I  cannot  bear  to  see  thee  cry ! 
Since  there  is  no  other  way,  I  must  go." 

Two  slow  tears  brimmed  from  the  older  woman's  eyes 
and  coursed  down  her  furrowed  cheeks.  She  fumbled 
for  her  handkerchief  and  brushed  them  away  impatiently. 

"Bah!  a  foolish  old  woman,  n'est-ce  pas? — Voila  ! 
c'est  fini !  we  make  no  more  complaint.  Since  there 
is  no  other  way,  thou  goest !  "  she  said  briskly,  and 
then,  lifting  her  head  with  a  quick  birdlike  movement, 
characteristic  of  her,  she  asked,  "Thou  art  sure  there  is 
no  other  way  ?  not,  par  exemple — Jean  Paul  ?  " 

The  earnestness  underlying  her  would-be  jesting  tone 
made  the  question  rather  pathetic. 

The  girl  laughed — a  ripple  of  laughter,  with  all  her 
youth  in  it. 

"  Petite  Mere  !  If  there  w-ere  but  one  man  in  the 
world,  and  that  man  were  Jean  Paul,  I  would  not  marry 
him.  Nor,  of  a  certainty,  even  if  such  were  the  case, 
would'st  thou  counsel  me  to  become  Madame  Jean 
Paul !  " 


2  A  DREAM  OF  BLUE   ROSES 

They  rose  to  their  feet.  "C'est  vrai,  Mignonne  !  "  said 
Petite  Mere  sturdily,  with  a  little  laugh  that  was  more 
than  half  a  sob,  "Toi!  Madame  Jean  Paul!  Jamais 
de  la  vie  !  Sooner  would  I  see  thee  go,  though  it  tears 
my  heart  to  part  from  thee.  Bah  !  this  money  !  it  is  a 
cursed  thing,  and  causes  half  the  trouble  in  life.  My 
Joseph  always  said  so,  and  he  knew  !  "  she  nodded  her 
head  wisely  as  she  spoke.  "Where  parting  is,  it  is  for 
one  of  two  reasons,  death  or  money !  " 

"Say  rather,  the  want  of  it,  and  that  is  now  a  point 
for  consideration ;  I  must  have  money  for  the  journey." 

"That  is  true.  Thou  must  have  money  .  .  .  much 
money  .  .  .  for  it  is  an  affair  of  great  expense,  truly, 
with  the  train  and  the  boat,  and  God  knows  what 
beside  I  " 

Petite  M^re  crossed  the  room  to  where  the  girl  stood 
gazing  out  of  the  window.  Taking  her  arm  with  a 
loving  gesture,  she  stood  for  a  while  in  silence.  Then 
she  said  softly,  "There  is  the  ring,  Babette  I  " 

"There  is  the  ring.  Petite  Mere,"  was  the  quiet  answer. 
"  It  must  be,  since  there  is  no  other  way." 

"It  is  worth  much  money!  " 

"So  much  the  better." 

"Monsieur  Legrand — he  would  do  it  for  us " 

"Bien!     Petite  Mere." 

"  Then  we  will  go  to  him  next  market  day." 

"Bien,  Petite  M^re." 

"And  now,  embrace  me,  my  child." 

Babette  threw  her  strong  arms  round  the  slight  figure, 
and  kissed  her  fondly.  For  a  moment  they  clung  to- 
gether.    Petite  Mere  sighed  heavily. 

"Enfin!"  she  said.  "It  is  not  easy — this  life — of 
a  truth  it  is  not  easy !  My  Joseph  always  said  so, 
and  he  knew !  Come  now,  ma  fille,  Melanie  will  be 
returning." 

She  hurried  from  the  room,  followed  by  the  girl,  but 
on  the  threshold  she  stopped  suddenly,  as  a  familiar 
sound  met  her  ears.  A  donkey  brayed  loudly  and 
discordantly. 

"  It   is   the  voice  of   Cleopatre !  "    Petite   M^re   said. 


A   DECISION   AND   A   PROPOSAL  8 

smiling.  "Vraiment  elle  a  beaucoup  de  caractere  !  It 
is  witliout  doubt  jMelanie  who  returns." 

Babette  ran  to  the  porch  and  glanced  in  the  direction 
of  the  sound.  The  next  moment  she  was  back  on  flying 
feet. 

"  La  !  La  !  Petite  M^re,  it  is  Madame  Laurent  who 
arrives  !  " 

"Then,  without  doubt,  she  comes  once  more  on  the 
business  of  the  bon  gar^on,  Jean  Paul !  "  announced 
Petite  Mere  calmly.  "What  reply  wilt  thou  have  me 
give  to  her  ?  " 

Babette  gave  her  a  playful  shake.  -"Go  thou  to  meet 
her,  naughty  one,  I  go  to  prepare  coffee  !  "  and  with  that 
she  disappeared  into  the  tiny  kitchen. 

Petite  Mere  greeted  her  guest  with  her  customary 
cheerfulness  and  courtesy.  No  one  would  have  guessed 
from  her  demeanour  that  the  heart  under  her  worn  black 
bodice  was  aching  sorely.  She  escorted  her  to  the  salon 
and  invited  her  to  be  seated. 

"^ladame  had  walked?  Madame  was  doubtless 
fatigued.  The  day  had  been  fine — but  yes,  and 
warmer  than  usual  at  this  season  of  the  year  .  .  .  but 
in  truth  there  was  already  a  feeling  of  spring  in  the 
air  !  " 

If  Petite  Mare's  calmness  was  a  cloak  donned  to  cover 
her  inward  feelings,  it  was  very  evident  that  her  visitor 
possessed  no  such  garment,  or  if  she  did,  that  she  had 
dispensed  with  it  for  the  afternoon.  She  was  much 
agitated,  and  her  hostess's  attempts  at  pleasant  conversa- 
tion fell  on  deaf  ears. 

Madame  Laurent  was  a  large  gaunt  woman,  with  a 
large  bony  face.  On  seeing  the  expanse  of  square  fore- 
head unblushingly  revealed  by  the  scantiness  of  her  hair, 
and  the  angle  at  which  her  beaded  bonnet  was  perched 
at  the  back  of  her  head,  you  were  irresistibly  and  at  once 
reminded  of  a  horse — and  the  way  in  which  her  wide 
nostrils  worked  in  moments  of  excitement,  such  as  the 
present,  heightened  the  resemblance. 

She  was  plainly,  even  shabbily,  dressed,  but  there 
was  no  hint  of  poverty  in  her  appearance.     The  large 

B  2 


4  A   DREAM   OF   BLUE   ROSES 

cameo  brooch,  heavily  set  in  gold,  and  the  massive 
gold  watch-chain  which  she  wore,  gave  an  air  of 
opulence.  ...  It  was  as  though  they  said,  "There  is 
no  lack  of  wealth,  don't  think  it  for  a  moment  .  .  .  but 
why  waste  it  on  the  things  that  perish  ?  Gold  will  out- 
last raiment !  " 

The  equine  forehead  was  beaded  with  moisture,  and 
the  large  bony  hands  plucked  restlessly  at  the  tips  of 
the  black  cotton  gloves  which  covered  them.  And  still 
Petite  M^re  chatted  on,  her  bright  eyes  roving  this  way 
and  that,  noting  every  detail  of  dress — every  symptom 
of  distress  of  mind.  Outwardly  she  gave  no  sign  of 
comprehension,  but  inwardly  she  was  enjoying  herself. 
In  consequence  she  made  no  effort  to  assist  the  agitated 
lady,  who,  at  last,  unable  to  suffer  any  longer  in  silence, 
interrupted  her  suddenly,  almost  rudely — 

"  Madame,  I  come  on  business  !  " 

Petite  M^re  bowed  with  admirably  simulated  surprise, 
but  with  a  twinkling  eye. 

"I  come,  Madame,  on  business — to  speak  with  you 
yet  once  more  of  the  affair  of  my  unhappy  son." 

"Monsieur  Laurent  is  not  ill,  I  trust,"  inquired  Petite 
M^re,  with  polite  concern.  And  then,  as  though  the 
question  shattered  some  obstacle  which  dammed  the 
torrent  of  her  emotion,  words  poured  from  Madame 
Laurent  in  a  resistless  flood. 

"My  son  is  ill !  ...  mais  oui  !  it  is  a  malady  .  .  . 
it  is  an  obsession  !  He  sleeps  not !  he  eats  not !  He 
grows  pale  and  thin  !  To-day,  once  more,  I  urge  him 
to  take  courage  ...  to  combat  this  foolishness,  but  it 
is  useless.  '  Ch^re  Maman  !  '  he  said,  '  I  cannot  live, 
I  die !  '  Again  I  beseech,  I  implore  .  .  .  but  no  !  it  is 
useless.  ...  I  cannot  reason  with  a  man  possessed. 
It  cannot  continue.  ...  I  dread  what  may  happen  to 
my  unhappy  son.  So  loving  ...  so  obedient.  .  .  . 
Who  knows  but  that  he  may  be  driven  to  dreadful  deeds  ! 
And  so  I  say  to  myself,  this  must  cease,  I  will  be  mag- 
nanimous. I  come,  Madame,  to  ask  of  you  the  hand  of 
your  ward.  Mademoiselle  Vincent,  for  my  son,  Jean 
Paul." 


A  DECISION   AND   A   PROPOSAL  5 

Petite  M^re   essayed  to  speak,   but   was  waved   into 
silence  with  a  decided  gesture. 

"Permit  that  I  continue.  On  my  last  visit  I  think 
I  expressed  my  sentiments — the  marriage  is  not  all 
that  I  desire !  Mais  non  !  Mademoiselle  is  stranger 
— Engleesh !  For  my  part,  you  understand  ...  I 
should  prefer  a  compatriot  .  .  .  but  in  this  unhappy 
affair  it  would  seem  that  for  me  and  my  sentiments  there 
is  no  consideration  !  Bien  !  We  pass  that ! — I  will 
be  magnanimous.  Then  .  .  .  mademoiselle  is  h^re- 
tique  !  that  is  for  me  une  horreur  !  I,  for  me,  am  a 
faithful  daughter  of  the  Church — but  that  is  a  point 
which  could  perhaps  be  arranged.  She  is  young,  and 
has  doubtless  no  knowledge  of  the  truth.  ...  I  will 
consult  Monsieur  le  Cure,  who  will,  I  trust,  find  her 
docile  and  obedient  and  will  consent  to  admit  her  to  the 
arms  of  Mother  Church,  ever  ready  to  receive  those 
who  truly  repent  of  error.  Then  .  .  .  encore.  .  .  ." 
Madame  drew  her  chair  a  few  inches  nearer  and  dropped 
her  voice  almost  to  a  whisper,  "The  dot?  Madame, 
what  of  the  dot?  You  understand  that  it  will  be  the 
subject  of  the  closest  scrutiny.  For  me  .  .  ."  here  she 
tapped  her  flat  chest  with  a  hard  forefinger  to  emphasize 
her  words,  "for  me,  I  am  a  woman  of  business,  and  I 
will  not  disguise  from  you,  Madame,  that  some  day  .  .  . 
some  day  my  Jean  Paul  will  have  a  noble  heritage,  and 
in  such  an  alliance  as  this  the  bride  must  bring  a  por- 
tion worthy  of  such  a  husband — fully  worthy,  you 
understand."  Here  she  shook  her  hollowed  hands  as 
if  they  contained  coin  which  rattled  with  the  movement. 
"  I  will  instruct  Monsieur  le  Notaire  to  go  carefully  into 
the  matter  later.  ...  I  wish  you  merely  to  understand 
that  I  have  my  opinion,  and  that  it  is  no  undecided  one ! 
Truly  a  girl  does  not  get  a  husband  like  my  Jean  Paul 
every  day.  Ah!  if  he  would  only  be  guided  by  me  I 
There  is  Marie  Bigot  .  .  .  she  is  rich  !  rich,  I  assure 
you  !  and  not  too  ill-favoured,  and  she  would  be  thankful 
to  have  him  to-morrow,  but  he  will  not  be  persuaded  ! 
'  Maman,'  he  says,  '  for  me  it  is  Babette  Vincent,  and 
no  other.'     He  desires  her  madly  ...  I  speak  of  matri- 


6  A  DREAM   OF  BLUE  ROSES 

mony  ...  of  my  desire  that  he  should  range  himself, 
of  my  desire  to  see  the  children  of  my  Jean  Paul  beside 

the  hearth  before  the  good  God  calls "     Her  voice 

faltered,  and  Petite  Mere,  watching  intently,  forgot  for 
a  moment  the  grasping,  usurious  hands,  forgot  the 
horse-like  figure,  and  saw  a  glimpse  of  the  mother-love 
pleading  for  a  dear  son,  and  that  son's  happiness.  Not 
many  people  had  ever  seen  that  side  of  Madame  Laurent, 
woman  of  business.  "And  he  said,  '  Maman,  I  too 
desire  with  all  my  heart  to  see  my  children  beside  the 
hearth  .  .  .  give  me  Babette  Vincent !  '  My  son.  .  .  . 
Ah  !  Madame,  I  can  assure  you  that  there  is  no  other  so 
good  in  all  the  country-side  ...  so  industrious  ...  so 
obedient  ...  he  would  make  a  most  docile  husband  !  " 

She  paused,  and  for  a  moment  there  was  silence,  and 
then  resuming  her  former  decisiveness  of  manner,  she 
said,  "But  affection  is  not  everything.  You  understand, 
Madame,  I  must  be  satisfied  on  all  the  considerations 
I  have  named,  and  also  that  the  family  of  Mademoiselle 
is  entirely  suitable.  I  must  know  that  by  birth  she  is 
the  equal  of  my  son  !  " 

Petite  Mare's  turn  had  come.  She  rose  to  her  feet, 
her  diminutive  figure  drawn  to  its  full  height,  her 
appearance  more  bird-like  than  ever — like  a  little  brown 
wren  smoothing  her  plumage  before  engaging  in  an 
encounter. 

"  Madame," — she  spoke  with  the  most  deceptive  calm- 
ness— "I  thank  you  for  the  proposal  you  have  made  to 
my  ward.  Mademoiselle  Barbara  Vincent — but  I  am  com- 
pelled to  decline  it.  Mademoiselle  is  leaving  me  .  .  .  she 
goes  very  shortly  to  England.  .  .  ."  Petite  M^re  wetted 
her  dry  lips,  and  lied  bravely.  "Mademoiselle  goes  to 
join  her  relatives  .  .  .  she  has  relatives  and  friends 
.  .  .  the  most  distinguished,  in  England." 

Madame  Laurent  collapsed  into  the  chair  she  had  just 
quitted  as  if  her  knees  had  given  under  her  involun- 
tarily, and  emitted  what  could  only  be  described  as  a 
neigh  of  surprise. 

"You  understand,  Madame,"  continued  Petite  M^re, 
"that  while  entirely  appreciating  the  most  worthy  prin- 


A  DECISION  AND   A  PROPOSAL  7 

ciples  of  Monsieur  your  son,  I  feel  that  when  Made- 
moiselle Vincent  marries  she  will  form  an  alliance  in  her 
own  country,  and  in  the  exalted  rank  to  which  she  is 
by  birth  and  by  nature  entitled.  On  the  two  previous 
occasions  on  which  you  have  favoured  me  with  your 
views  and  the  sentiments  of  your  son,  I  informed  you 
without  hesitation  that  he  could  hope  for  no  encourage- 
ment. I  w-as  not  prepared  at  that  time  to  state  the 
reason,  but  now,  Madame,  I  give  it  to  you  in  full. 
Thanking  you  for  your  magnanimity,  and  trusting  that 
Monsieur  your  son  will  speedily  find  consolation  else- 
where, I  would  now  suggest  a  cup  of  coffee." 

Leaving  her  adversary  thus  completely  routed.  Petite 
M^re  crossed  the  little  salon  with  all  the  dignity  of  an 
empress  in  miniature,  in  order  to  summon  her  sister  with 
the  desired  refreshment.  Engrossed  as  she  had  been 
in  the  conversation,  or  rather  in  her  role  of  listener,  she 
had  failed  to  notice  the  voice  of  Cl^opatre,  that  ass  of 
character,  who  invariably  announced  all  arrivals,  and 
she  only  devoutly  trusted  that  Melanie  had  returned. 
The  appearance  of  Babette  at  this  juncture  would  be 
inadvisable,  to  say  the  least  of  it.  Questions  might  be 
asked  which  it  would  be  impossible  to  answer — a 
hundred  things  might  happen. 

But  what  actually  took  place  was  entirely  unforeseen, 
for,  hardly  had  she  reached  the  door,  when  Madame 
Laurent  rose,  a  flush  upon  her  face,  and  hot  anger  in 
her  gleaming  eyes.  Past  speech  .  .  .  past  good  manners 
.  .  .  conscious  only  of  the  fact  that  an  alliance  with  her 
Jean  Paul  had  been  refused,  when  she,  Jeanne  Laurent, 
had  in  her  magnanimity  demanded,  nay,  almost  implored 
it,  her  one  desire  was  to  depart  without  further  parley 
with  the  imbeciles,  who  knew  not  good  fortune  when 
they  saw  it.  Pushing  past  Petite  M6re  in  spite  of  her 
protesting,  **  Mais,  Madame !  "  she  seized  her  bulky 
gingham  and  a  basket  which  she  had  deposited  in  the 
porch  upon  her  arrival,  and  deaf,  dumb  and  furious, 
fairly  cantered  to  the  gate. 

In  vain  Petite  M^re,  her  sense  of  hospitality  outraged, 
pursued,  imploring  her  to  return  if  but  to  taste  a  cup 


8  A  DREAM   OF   BLUE   ROSES 

of  Melanie's  excellent  coffee,  or  a  glass  of  cider  .  .  .  she 
paid  no  heed,  and,  moving  with  a  rapidity  extraordinary 
for  one  of  her  age  and  bulk,  disappeared  down  the  lane. 
Petite  M^re  walked  slowly  back  to  the  house,  and  by 
the  time  she  had  reached  it,  she  had  regained  her  com- 
posure. "Phut!  ...  a  foolish  woman!  Let  her  go 
...  an  avaricious  woman  !  " 

But  one  thought  troubled  her.  She  had  lied  !  Mag- 
nificently, it  was  true,  but  lied,  nevertheless !  But 
there  !  what  would  you  ?  Was  Babette  to  be  lightly 
considered  by  a  miserly  bourgeoise  ?  Jamais  de  la  vie  ! 
God  grant  that  the  recording  angel  would  rub  an 
effacing  finger  across  the  slate  before  making  up  his 
books  that  night !  What  was  done,  was  done  !  Joseph 
had  always  said  so — and  he  knew  ! 


CHAPTER    II 


AN   OLD  STORY 


"  La  jeunesse  vit  d'esperance 
La  vieillesse  de  souvenir." 

French  Proverb. 

It  was  evening.  The  trio  had  partaken  of  their  frugal 
meal,  which  consisted  of  bread  and  fried  potatoes.  The 
fact  that  it  had  been  accompanied  to-night  by  hot  and 
fragrant  coffee,  should  have  made  the  simple  repast 
something  of  a  festivity,  a  thing  to  be  lingered  over  and 
enjoyed,  for  good  coffee  was  not  a  luxury  for  every  day 
.  .  .  for  a  visitor,  yes  !  and  since  on  this  occasion  the 
visitor  had  scorned  it  they  would  drink  and  be  merry. 
So  said  Petite  M^re ;  but,  somehow,  the  merriment  was 
lacking.  Babette  was  unusually  silent,  engrossed  in  the 
thoughts  of  an  unknown  future.  Petite  M6re  was  busily 
occupied  in  making  plans,  and  Melanie — well,  Melanie 
was  never  given  to  much  talking  .  .  .  being  stout  and 
lethargic. 

Petite  INI^re  pushed  back  her  chair,  and  proceeded  to 
gather  the  crumbs  for  the  birds.  "Eh  bien  !  "  she  said, 
"we  must  tell  Melanie  the  news,  ma  fille.  Ma  soeur, 
figure  to  thyself  the  change,  the  great  change,  that  comes 
to  us  !     Babette  is  leaving  us;  she  goes  to  England  !  " 

Melanie's  fat,  sallow  face  was  not  prone  to  changes  of 
expression,  but  now  the  surprise  was  so  great  that  the 
little  colour  she  possessed  faded,  and  her  small  beady 
eyes  grew  round  with  consternation. 

"La  petite  is  leaving  us?"  she  repeated  stupidly. 

"La  petite  has  business  which  must  be  attended  to," 
continued  Petite  M^re  briskly,  "business  which  cannot 
be  arranged  through  the  post,  so  she  has  decided  to  go 
herself  to  transact  it." 


10  A  DREAM  OF  BLUE   ROSES 

Melanie  stared  at  her  sister.  All  she  said  was,  "Lk ! 
L^!  L^!  L^!"  Petite  Mere  blinked  furiously. 
Babette  stared  at  her  empty  plate.  In  the  corner  the 
high  oak  clock  ticked  with  irritating  persistence.  For  a 
few  moments  no  one  spoke.  Then  Melanie's  voice  broke 
the  silence,  "  La  !  Lk\  La!  La  !"  and  again  "  La  !  Lk  ! 
Lk\" 

Petite  M^re  rose  hastily  .  .  .  her  nerves  were  frayed 
to-night. 

"For  the  love  of  God,  Melanie,  since  thou  canst  do 
nothing  but  make  a  noise  like  the  dripping  of  water  from 
a  leaky  tap,  go  thou  and  wash  the  plates  !  " 

She  spoke  so  sharply  that  her  voice  surprised  Babette, 
who  rose  with  the  crushed  INIelanie.  Never  in  all  the 
years  had  she  known  Petite  M^re  speak  like  that  .  .  . 
not  even  when  P^re  Joseph  died  and  all  the  trouble 
began.  Then  she  saw  the  tear-filled  eyes,  and  the  worn 
hands  that  trembled  so  that  even  the  crumbling  of  bread 
was  a  task  of  difficulty — and  understood.  Crossing  to 
her,  she  kissed  her  fondly,  but  without  speaking.  Petite 
M^re  returned  the  embrace.  "  I  am  stupid  to-night — 
me  !  but  what  would  you  ?  Melanie  can  be  on  occasion 
most  trying,  but,"  she  added,  as  if  repenting  of  her 
words,  "she  has  a  good  heart.  Now,  my  child,  go  thou 
and  finish  what  has  to  be  done,  and  then  we  will  speak 
together  once  more.  Is  it  not  so  ?  Also  I  have  a  letter 
which  must  be  written  to-night." 

The  table  was  cleared,  the  little  salle-k-manger,  which 
was  also  the  hall  of  the  cottage,  was  tidied,  and  Petite 
M^re  carried  the  lamp  to  the  salon  and  placed  it  on  the 
round  table  which  occupied  the  centre  of  the  apartment. 
Then,  drawing  a  bunch  of  keys  from  a  pocket  concealed 
under  her  skirt,  she  selected  one,  and  opened  an  old- 
fashioned  bureau  which  stood  against  the  wall.  Taking 
out  a  writing-case,  she  laid  it  on  the  table — a  small  bottle 
of  purple  ink  and  a  pen  were  set  beside  it.  Then,  put- 
ting on  her  spectacles,  she  seated  herself  and  prepared 
for  her  task. 

On  the  top  right  hand  corner  of  the  paper  she  wrote 
the  address,  carefully  and  in  a  neat,   flowing  writing, 


AN  OLD  STORY  11 

Le  Pavilion  des  Fleurs, 
Mentheville, 

Seine  Inferieure, 
France, 
and  commenced  in  English, 

"My  dear  Molly." 

So  far  it  was  easy,  but  then  she  paused  and  sat  for 
a  long  while,  her  eyes  fixed  on  the  written  words,  with- 
out moving,  lost  in  thought. 

It  was  so  long  ago,  that  day,  and  yet  how  clearly  she 
remembered  every  incident  as  though  it  were  yesterday. 
Fifteen  years  ago  !  Joseph  had  gone  to  Paris — that  in 
itself  was  a  thing  to  be  remembered — an  extraordinary 
thing,  Joseph  seldom  went  to  Paris  ! 

A  letter  had  come  from  his  brother  Georges  requesting 
his  presence,  and  so,  wonderingly,  he  had  gone.  She 
recalled  it  so  well.  Just  as  he  was  starting  she  had 
noticed  a  stain  on  the  sleeve  of  his  best  black  coat. 
There  had  been  no  time  to  attend  to  it,  and  he  had  been 
forced  to  depart,  stain  and  all,  but  it  had  troubled  her, 
and  during  the  three  days  of  his  absence  she  had  thought 
of  it  continually. 

And  then  he  had  returned.  Petite  M^re  had  not 
known  which  day  to  expect  him,  and  she  had  been  sit- 
ting by  the  fire,  sewing,  with  Napoleon  the  black  cat 
purring  contentedly  beside  her,  when  she  had  heard  his 
voice. 

"Cherie!  Cherie  !  What  thinkest  thou  that  I  bring 
to  thee  ?  Come,  see  !  See  the  little  cat  that  I  have 
brought !  " 

She  well  remembered  her  answer.  "Tiens!  Joseph! 
why  a  cat  when  we  already  have  Napoleon  ?  " 

She  had  hurried  to  meet  him,  and  then  she  had  under- 
stood. Joseph  had  ever  loved  his  little  jest,  his 
plaisanterie. 

He  stood  there,  his  massive  form  filling  the  narrow 
doorway,  and  before  him,  still  clinging  to  his  friendly 
hand  was  a  little  child,  a  tired,  frightened  child,  who 
stepped  straight  into  Petite  Mare's  heart,  never  to 
leave  it. 


12  A   DREAM   OF   BLUE   ROSES 

And  later  that  night,  when  the  Httle  one  was  sleeping, 
he  had  explained.  His  brother  Georges,  who  was,  as 
Cherie  well  knew,  a  notary  of  distinction  in  Paris,  had 
sent  for  him.  It  appeared  that  "un  Monsieur  Anglais," 
of  good  family,  desired  to  place  his  motherless  girl  with 
kindly  French  people  of  the  Protestant  Faith,  and 
Georges  had  at  once  thought  of  them.  The  child  was 
seven  years  old,  amiable  and  charming. 

A  certain  sum  of  money  would  be  paid  yearly  for  her 
maintenance  during  her  minority,  and  at  the  age  of 
twenty-one  there  would  be  "une  bonne  petite  fortune" 
awaiting  her.  There  were  but  two  conditions  :  the  first 
was  that  the  child  should  continue  to  speak  English 
fluently,  the  second,  that  on  no  account  should  the 
English  lawyers,  whose  name  and  address  were  given, 
be  communicated  with,  save  on  a  matter  of  grave  import. 

Circumstances  compelled  the  Englishman  to  travel" 
abroad  in  a  country  most  inaccessible,  where  letters 
could  not  reach  him.  Communications  were  unneces- 
sary— in  fact  undesirable.  In  the  event  of  the  child's 
death — which  need  not  be  thought  probable,  she  was 
strong  and  healthy — the  lawyers  were  to  be  advised  and 
the  money  would  cease.  Joseph  had  known  that  his 
wife  was  capable  of  fulfilling  the  first  condition,  she  had 
lived  for  several  years  in  England  before  her  marriage, 
and  after  some  hesitation  he  agreed. 

He  had  shown  her  the  papers  he  had  received  with 
the  child.  They  were  very  few.  Merely  the  certificate 
of  the  marriage  of  her  parents,  and  that  of  her  baptism, 
and,  on  a  sheet  of  writing  paper,  the  address  of  the 
English  lawyers,  and  the  full  name  of  his  little  charge — 
Barbara  Claudia  Vincent. 

Joseph  had  read  the  words,  and  the  syllables  had  come 
haltingly  to  his  unfamiliar  tongue. 

"Tiens!  c'est  drole !  what  would  it  mean  to  say, 
cherie?" 

Cherie  had  explained. 

"Bien  !  c'est  bien  !  Babette  she  shall  be,"  had  been 
his  answer.  And  Babette  she  had  been  albeit  on  state 
occasions  only ;  at  other  times  pet  names,  such  as  Little 


AN   OLD   STORY  18 

Cabbage,  Little  Cat,  Mignonne,  and  who  knows  what 
besides  had  been  fondly  employed. 

Petite  Mere  had  timidly  asked  if  her  Joseph  had  any 
assurance  that  the  yearly  allowance  would  be  paid,  and 
he  had  replied  that  Georges  had  given  him  every  assur- 
ance on  that  point.  He  was  entirely  satisfied.  What- 
ever her  doubts  had  been  they  were  lulled  to  rest. 
Joseph  was  satisfied,  and  he  knew. 

So,  through  the  long  years  Barbara  Claudia 
Vincent  had  remained  to  be  the  joy  of  the  childless 
couple. 

But  now,  all  was  altered  :  Joseph  was  gone,  the  little 
house  beside  the  gleaming  river  knew  them  no  more,  it 
was  exchanged  for  the  home  of  Petite  Mare's  childhood, 
Le  Pavilion  des  Fleurs,  a  tiny  domicile  for  all  its  high 
sounding  name.  And  worse  than  all,  since  there  was 
no  other  way,  Babette  must  go  !  The  allowance  which 
had  arrived  every  year  punctually,  for  so  long  that  it 
seemed  as  imperishable  an  institution  as  the  village 
church  itself,  suddenly  failed.  For  two  years  now  they 
had  waited,  patiently  at  first,  but  with  ever  increasing 
anxiety,  for,  in  the  untoward  way  in  which  troubles 
come,  never  as  spies  but  always  in  battalions,  a  financial 
disaster  had  robbed  Petite  M^re  of  the  larger  part  of 
her  income,  soon  after  the  death  of  Joseph.  A  mere 
pittance  remained — quite  insufficient  for  their  daily 
needs  should  they  continue  to  live  in  the  style  and  com- 
fort to  which  they  had  been  accustomed.  The  little 
pavilion,  which  had  previously  been  let,  fell  vacant, 
and  no  tenant  could  be  found.  Melanie  too  was  grow- 
ing feeble,  and  could  no  longer  support  herself  in  the 
employment  in  which  she  had  been  engaged.  Altogether 
it  seemed  wisest  to  move.  To  part  with  'Toinette,  the 
faithful  servant  of  years,  was  a  wrench,  to  leave  the 
little  house  so  fragrant  with  memories  a  greater,  but 
there  was  no  help  for  it. 

And  finally,  Babette  realized  for  herself  that  her  child- 
hood was  over,  that  without  contributing  to  the  general 
purse  she  could  no  longer  stay.  For  months  Petite 
M6re  refused  to  agree.    "  Why  speak  of  it  ?  "  she  urged. 


14  A   DREAM   OF   BLUE   ROSES 

"What  thou  eatest,  what  is  it?     A  bagatelle  !     I  cannot 
part  from  thee."     But  at  last  she  agreed. 

Babette  should  go  to  the  lawyers  in  England,  and 
obtain  possession  of  the  "bonne  petite  fortune"  which 
was  to  be  hers  when  she  was  twenty-one.  But  she  was 
very  sad — truly,  as  Joseph  had  said,  "  It  was  not  easy, 
this  life !  " 

The  door  opened,  and  the  entrance  of  Babette  recalled 
her  to  herself. 

"All  is  finished.  Petite  M^re,"  she  said  cheerfully. 
"Melanie  has  gone  to  bed;  she  has  a  headache.  I  will 
bring  my  knitting,  and  sit  beside  you  as  you  write.  I 
must  not  be  idle,  for  I  have  still  two  pairs  of  stockings 
and  several  other  things  to  finish." 

"Come,  Mignonne,"  responded  Petite  Mere  brightly. 
"For  me,  I  write  to  Molly  Seymour,  or,  to  be  exact,  to 
Molly  Arkwright.  Thou  knowest  that  for  seven  years 
she  was  my  pupil  in  a  part  of  England  that  calls  itself 
Hampshire.  We  have  always  corresponded,  although 
for  some  time  now  I  have  not  heard  from  her,  and  for 
years  I  have  not  seen  her.  Alas  !  how  many  years  ? 
But  once  since  my  marriage,  when  Joseph  took  me  to 
England.  But  he  loved  it  not — the  '  land  of  rain  and 
fog,'  he  called  it  always.  There  were  two  sisters  when  I 
lived  with  them — Molly  and  Evelyn.  .  .  .  Evelyn  was 
intelligent,  but  Molly  had  the  good  heart.  She,  too, 
has  been  married  this  long  time ;  she  has  a  good  husband, 
and  now  four  children.  We  saw  Monsieur  Arkwright, 
and  Joseph  was  well  content  with  him.  Mademoiselle 
has  made  a  good  choice,  he  said.  ...  So  I  write  to 
Molly ;  I  say  thou  comest  to  England  on  business  which 
may  detain  thee,  or,  again,  it  may  not !  Who  can  say  ? 
But  she  will  be  a  friend  to  thee.  She  lives  in  the  country, 
but  what  matters  it  ?  There  are  always  trains  in  these 
days.  I  say  that  thou  wilt  come  in  three  or  four  weeks, 
and  that  tfiou  wilt  write  or  telegraph  from  London. 
N'est  ce  pas?" 

For  a  while  nothing  was  heard  but  the  scratching  of 
Madame  Mare's  fine  pen  and  the  click  of  the  knitting- 
needles. 


AN   OLD   STORY  15 

"Cherie!"  said  Babette  suddenly,  "I  think  that  no 
girl  ever  had  such  a  happy  childhood  as  I." 

"I  thank  God  for  it,  little  one." 

The  girl  leaned  forward,  and,  resting  her  elbows  on 
the  table,  framed  her  face  in  her  hands.  Her  large  grey 
eyes  were  full  of  light. 

"Truly,  so  do  1,"  she  said  gently.  "Every  day  has 
been  happy." 

Petite  M^re  gazed  at  the  sweet  face  as  if  her  eyes 
could  never  take  their  fill  of  gazing.  It  was  not  a 
beautiful  face — no,  the  features  were  too  irregular,  the 
mouth  a  shade  too  large,  but  it  was  more  than  redeemed 
from  plainness  by  the  eyes,  and  by  the  wide  brow 
beneath  the  brown  hair  which  rioted  in  waves  and  curls, 
and  caught  the  reflected  fire-light  in  bright  gleams  of 
gold.  The  expression  was  remarkable  —  youthful 
radiance  shone  in  every  curve  and  line,  hope,  fearless- 
ness, joy,  and,  above  all,  a  sweet  sensibility — whole- 
some, loving  and  pure,  and  supremely  attractive. 

A  little  shiver  shook  Petite  Mere's  slight  form. 
"Mignonne,"  she  said,  "suppose — only  suppose  that 
shouldst  fail  and  that  there  is  no  money  !  what  wilt  thou 
do  then  ?  " 

"Then  I  will  obtain  employment,"  replied  the  girl 
quickly.  "I  am  young  and  strong,  I  can  easily  earn 
money." 

Petite  M^re  nodded.  "Yes,  perhaps,  by  teaching. 
French  is  a  language  always  in  demand,  and  thy  French 
is  of  an  accent  the  most  pure.  It  would  without  doubt 
be  wise  for  thee  to  furnish  thyself  with  letters  of  recom- 
mendation. I  myself  will  write  one  for  thee.  Monsieur 
Danton  and  Madame  Menoux  also,  who  have  known 
and  loved  thee.  I  myself  went  to  England  at  no  greater 
age  than  thine — but  I  was  friendless,  and  thou  wilt  have 
Molly,  who  will  be  a  friend  to  thee,  of  that  I  am  very 
sure."  She  paused,  and  then  in  a  voice  which  was 
scarcely  audible,  she  asked,  "And — if  thou  hast  the 
money — if  thy  heritage  is  sure  ?  " 

"Cherie!  "  cried  the  girl  eagerly,  "thou  knowest !  I 
will   return — return   at   once  ! — immediately,   and   then, 


16  A  DREAM  OF  BLUE   ROSES 

Petite  M^re  !  " — she  clapped  her  hands — "we  will  travel 
— just  thou  and  I — all  over  the  world — to  Venice,  to 
Japan;  I  have  always  wished  to  see  Japan." 

The  older  woman  made  no  reply. 

"Thou  would'st  come,  Petite  M^re?  Thou  would'st 
enjoy  it?"  asked  the  girl  wistfully. 

"But  of  course,"  said  Petite  M^re,  with  a  little  sob- 
bing laugh.  "We  will  go  to  the  ends  of  the  w^orld — 
thou  and  I  together — to  find  the  fairies,  and  all  our 
castles  in  Spain  will  prove  themselves  to  be  of  solid 
stone  !  Assuredly,  my  child,  I  shall  enjoy  it.  Now  be 
silent  while  I  finish  my  letter.  I  will  put  it  in  the  box 
to-night,  ready  for  the  postman  in  the  morning." 


CHAPTER    III 


DAYS   GONE   BY 


Days  glad  in  life,  and  sad  in  memory." 

P.  B.  Marston. 

There  is  a  certain  railway  junction  in  a  quiet  part  of 
the  sunny  land  of  France,  where  the  traveller,  should 
he,  or  she,  as  the  case  may  be,  be  of  an  observant 
nature,  may  espy  upon  one  of  the  platforms  a  square 
black  board,  on  which  are  written  in  white  letters  words 
which  may  be  translated  as  follows — 

"This  train  directs  itself  towards  Les  Andelys." 

A  simple  statement  this,  and  strictly  non-committal, 
giving  as  little  information  as  possible.  Nothing  is  said 
about  time  or  stopping-places;  it  merely  goes  in  that 
direction.  Also,  no  promise  is  made  as  to  ultimate 
arrival ! 

But  if  the  traveller  is  of  a  sufficiently  intrepid  spirit  to 
embark  on  this  somewhat  indefinite  journey,  he  will  be 
amply  repaid. 

The  train  directs  itself — truly,  no  other  verb 
would  so  accurately  describe  its  progress.  It  does  not 
"go."  The  verb  to  "go,"  when  connected  with  a  train, 
signifies  hurry  and  bustle  and  no  little  noise.  It  "directs 
itself"  at  a  leisurely  pace — almost  a  saunter — 
through  smiling  orchards  and  sunny  pastures — green 
woodlands  and  quaint  villages ;  stopping  here  and  there 
as  if  it  were  fatigued  and  would  fain  rest  awhile.  There 
are  no  shrill  whistles,  no  hooting  yells  of  the  locomotive, 
nothing  to  disturb  the  peace  :  the  faint  note  of  a  horn 
indicates  that  it  is  prepared  to  resume  its  progress  when 
it  has  rested  long  enough.  Time  does  not  count — it 
directs  itself  when  it  is  ready — not  before. 

But  sooner  or  later  it  arrives  at  its  journey's  end;  the 
c  17 


18  A  DREAM  OF   BLUE   ROSES 

little  quiet  town  of  Le  Petit  Andely,  just  a  cluster  of  red 
roofs  nestling  round  the  "heavenward  pointing  finger," 
the  slender  spire  of  the  village  church. 

If,  however,  the  traveller  is  wise,  or  has  been  instructed 
beforehand  by  some  better  informed  friend,  he  will  leave 
the  train  at  the  previous  station,  and  turn  his  steps 
towards  the  gleam  of  water  which  he  will  observe  upon 
his  right.  It  is  the  Seine — flowing  serenely  in  the 
gentle  afternoon  sunshine — it  must  be  afternoon  ! 
two  hours  before  sunset  is  the  proper  time  to  arrive  at 
the  end  of  every  journey  ! 

Taking  the  broad  path  along  the  bank,  he  will  stroll, 
noting,  again,  if  he  is  wise,  the  wild  flowers — the 
blue-bells,  the  honeysuckle,  or  the  bryony,  according  to 
the  season  ;  the  swallows  skimming  over  the  limpid  water, 
which  reflects  so  clearly  the  tall  poplars  fringing  the 
opposite  bank — ^and  here  and  there  a  cypress  tree. 

On  his  left  are  high  cliff's,  covered  for  the  most  part 
with  short  sparse  grass,  with,  now  and  then,  a  great 
white  chalk  buttress  standing  out  from  them,  as  though 
Nature  had  originally  planned  and  indeed  commenced 
fortifications,  and  then  had  come  to  the  conclusion  that 
they  were  not  necessary  and  had  left  them  unfinished. 

Presently  he  will  turn  with  a  bend  in  the  river,  and 
will  see  before  him,  towering  high  and  majestic  above 
the  little  town,  Chateau  Gaillard,  its  massive  keep 
shining  white  and  clear  against  the  azure  of  the  sky. 

The  river  is  wider  now,  its  course  intersected  mid- 
stream by  a  small  island  covered  with  trees.  Soon  he 
will  be  able  to  distinguish  the  quay,  and  maybe  a  few 
barges  lying  beside  it,  and  further  on  a  bridge,  its  four 
great  arches  spanning  the  wide  waters.  It  is  possible 
that  he  may  notice  a  small  cottage  as  he  passes,  where, 
every  year,  bloom  great  beds  of  iris,  the  flcur  de  lys  of 
France,  pale  silvery  mauve,  and  glowing  purple ;  he 
cannot  fail  to  observe  the  hospital,  an  imposing  and  very 
modern  structure,  and  then,  very  soon,  he  will  see  a 
small  green  iron  gate,  through  which  glimpses  may 
be  caught  of  gay  flower  beds  and  behind  them  a  little 
house  with  green  jalousies. 


DAYS   GONE   BY  19 

In  this  little  house,  with  the  green  jalousies,  behind 
the  little  garden,  lived  for  many  years  P^re  Joseph, 
Petite  M^re  and  Babette. 

This,  of  course,  the  traveller  will  not  know,  so  he  will 
pass  on,  doubtless,  to  the  hotel  on  the  quay,  but  we  will 
linger  here  a  little  while  to  revisit  the  old  home,  and 
picture  to  ourselves  the  scenes  of  every  day. 

He  was  no  heroic  figure,  le  bon  P^re  Joseph,  with  his 
shambling  form,  his  corpulency  and  his  thick  grey  hair, 
which  he  wore  "en  brosse,"  standing  up  like  a  bristling 
chevaux  de  frise  above  his  fat  red  face.  But  you  forgot 
it  all !  forgot,  too,  the  general  air  of  untidiness  which 
characterized  him  in  spite  of  all  Petite  Mare's  efforts  to 
the  contrary — the  traces  of  snuff,  even,  maybe,  the 
traces  of  his  last  meal  upon  his  wide  expanse  of  waist- 
coat— when  you  knew  him,  when  you  knew  the 
generosity  of  his  great  heart !  He  had  a  genius  for 
loving-kindness,  had  le  bon  P^re  Joseph !  No  unkind 
w^ord,  no  harsh  criticism  had  ever  been  heard  to  pass 
his  lips.  Of  simple  faith  and  unfailing  cheerfulness, 
loving  his  little  plaisanterie,  full  of  a  whimsical  and 
wholly  delightful  humour,  small  wonder  he  was  so 
beloved  by  all  who  knew  him. 

It  was  an  ideal  home  for  a  child,  this  little  house 
beside  the  shining  water,  so  full  of  unpretentious  com- 
fort and  simple  gaiety.  Just  two  sitting-rooms  and  the 
kitchen  below,  with  four  bedrooms  above;  and  over 
these,  again,  the  grenier,  fragrant  of  apples  and  of  herbs, 
and  such  a  place  for  hide  and  seek  on  a  wet  day  ! 

But  it  was  in  the  garden  that  the  greater  part  of 
Babette's  days  were  spent ;  the  garden  that  they  all  loved, 
so  full  of  blossom  and  of  fruit.  The  pansies  in  the 
corner  bed  were  known  as  Petite  Mare's  children,  she 
loved  them  so — and  Babette  had  her  own  little  plot 
full  of  roses  and  mignonette. 

On  one  side  of  the  house  was  the  orchard  where  the 
golden  apples  grew:  "the  garden  of  the  Hesperides." 
Here  'Toinette  spread  the  gleaming  linen  on  fine  Tues- 
days, and  here,  on  a  little  wooden  chair  with  a  table 
before  her,  Babette  learned  her  early  lessons, 
c  2 


20  A     DREAM   OF   BLUE   ROSES 

At  the  bottom  of  the  garden  was  the  gate  which  led 
to  the  river,  and  beyond  this  she  might  not  go,  but  what 
matter  ?  since  by  climbing  up  a  Httle  mound  close  by, 
she  could  get  an  excellent  view  of  all  the  passing  boats. 
This  little  mound  was  called  Mont  Parnasse,  and  the 
tiny  summer-house  on  the  summit  was  La  Temple  de  la 
Reflexion.  Here  P^re  Joseph  would  sit  on  warm 
summer  days  after  his  dejeuner — not  infrequently  with 
his  spotted  blue  and  white  handkerchief  over  his  face, 
and  ominous  sounds  would  then  give  due  warning  that 
he  did  not  care  to  be  disturbed. 

.  Babette  had  no  companions  of  her  own  age,  but  how 
could  she  miss  them  ?  with  all  the  devotion  of  three 
faithful  hearts,  for  'Toinette  must  not  be  forgotten  ! 
She  did  her  lessons  as  a  child  with  Petite  Mere,  and 
when  all  her  tasks  were  finished,  then  all  the  fun  would 
begin  ! 

Oh !  those  walks  with  P^re  Joseph !  the  thrilling 
interest  of  them  ! 

In  vain  they  begged  Petite  M^re  to  accompany  them, 
but  she  loved  not  walking  on  foot !  Oh,  no  !  So  with 
a  smiling  face  she  would  watch  them  start.  "Two 
babies  !  "  she  would  say.  "Verily  I  know  not  which  is 
the  younger  !  " 

So  off  they  would  go,  a  curious  pair  :  P^re  Joseph, 
huge,  unwieldy,  in  his  short  black  alpaca  coat,  with  the 
roomy  pockets,  and  a  small  black  and  white  straw  hat, 
with,  on  hot  days,  a  cabbage  leaf  tucked  into  it  to  keep 
his  head  cool,  and  the  happy,  chattering  child  in  her 
check  frock,  with  low  neck  and  short  sleeves,  and  a  wide 
hat  tied  securely  over  her  rioting  brown  curls. 

Hand  in  hand  they  would  climb  the  steep  path  that 
leads  to  the  castle,  over  the  short,  slippery  grass,  until 
they  reached  the  great  battlements  overlooking  the  wide 
range  of  mountains  and  forest  and  gleaming  river. 

And  P^re  Joseph  would  tell  of  ancient  days — how 
Richard  Coeur  de  Lion,  King  of  her  country,  raised 
the  massive  pile  on  his  return  from  captivity,  after 
Blondel,  the  sweet  singer,  had  managed  his  escape:  of 
Philippe  Auguste,  of  the  English  King  John,  of  Roger 


DAYS   GONE   BY  21 

de  Lacy,  a  brave  leader  of  the  garrison,  of  blows 
shrewdly  dealt,  of  courage,  of  treachery,  of  bloody  fights. 
And  Babette  wept  for  the  starving  peasants,  aged  men 
and  women  and  children,  driven  from  their  homes  by 
the  besiegers,  refused  shelter  at  the  castle,  crouching  in 
the  hollow  of  the  hillside,  perishing  between  the  devil 
and  the  deep  sea. 

What  games  they  played  !  One,  a  favourite  one  with 
Babette  in  the  early  days,  was  to  re-enact  the  French 
attack,  the  mining  of  ■  the  walls,  the  storming  of  the 
breach,  the  desperate  defence  and  the  final  victory  of  the 
defenders. 

Babette  could  not  understand  why  P^re  Joseph  never 
played  this  game  with  quite  the  same  zest  as  others,  until 
she  discovered  that  his  kind  heart  was  torn  between  his 
patriotism  and  his  love  for  his  little  enemy  ! 

After  that,  they  played  no  more  at  war  between  French 
and  English — they  did  the  Field  of  the  Cloth  of  Gold 
instead,  with  P^re  Joseph  as  Henry  VIII,  to  console 
him  ! 

And  when  the  interest  in  history  waned,  he  had  other 
stores  of  learning  upon  which  to  draw — other  tales  to 
tell  and  games  to  propose.  Together  they  sailed  with 
Jason  in  his  quest  of  the  Golden  Fleece,  together  they 
fought  with  Achilles  at  the  siege  of  Troy,  or  rode 
through  the  air  on  the  golden  arrow  of  Arabis. 

Down  in  the  dark  recesses  below  the  Castle,  which 
Babette  was  certain  were  dungeons,  but  which  tradition 
stated  were  merely  the  ancient  stables,  was  the  cave 
where  dwelt  the  giant  Polyph^me.  What  delicious  fears 
would  assail  her  at  his  fierce  roarings  out  of  the  gloom, 
until  one,  extra  ferocious,  would  drive  her  screaming 
to  bury  her  face  in  the  capacious  waistcoat  of  Poly- 
ph^me,  who  would  gather  her  in  his  great  arms  and 
assure  his  little  Cabbage  that  it  was  no  monster,  but 
merely  her  old  P6re  Joseph,  and  console  her  with  non- 
pareils— the  sugar-plums  in  which  her  soul  delighted. 

Sometimes  they  would  take  a  boat  and  cross  to  the 
wooded  island — a  veritable  wonderland  !  The  island  of 
Calypso,  where  the  ruins  of  fortifications  were  covered 


22  A  DREAM   OF   BLUE   ROSES 

with  a  tangle  of  roses  and  honeysuckle,  and  the  ancient 
walls  were  so  thick  that  they  had  gardens  of  snap- 
dragons and  wall-flowers  on  the  top  of  them.  Here  in 
an  angle  of  the  masonry  was  Phocis,  where  the  Delphic 
Oracle  might  be  consulted  in  any  doubt  or  difficulty. 

But,  alas  !  P^re  Joseph's  excursions  into  the  realms  of 
mythology  were  discountenanced  by  Petite  Mere  after 
one  sad  day  when  supper  time  came  and  Babette  was 
nowhere  to  be  found.  After  prolonged  search  a  little 
woe-begone  figure  was  discovered  by  the  aid  of  a  candle, 
crouching  in  a  far  corner  of  the  orchard  under  some 
brambles.  After  much  questioning,  she  sobbingly  an- 
nounced that  she  was  Persephone  in  Hades,  and  having 
eaten  pomegranate  seeds,  was  unable  to  return.  The 
.  child  was  carried  into  the  house,  undoubtedly  suffering, 
and  P^re  Joseph,  Petite  M^re  and  'Toinette  endured 
some  hours  of  acute  anxiety,  until  it  was  proved  by 
conclusive  evidence  that  the  cause  of  her  indisposition 
was  a  surfeit  of  unripe  blackberries  ! 

One  cloud  alone  dimmed  the  brightness  of  Babette's 
early  childhood,  and  that  was  the  dread  of  being  torn 
from  the  loving  couple  who  had  accepted  her  so  entirely 
as  their  own.  She  never  willingly  spoke  of  her  father. 
It  seemed  as  though  she  had  never  known  him  really 
intimately.  He  was  to  her  a  dreaded  being — an  ogre 
who  might  appear  at  any  moment  and  snatch  her  away. 
The  mere  thought  of  it  was  for  awhile  a  terror,  and  on 
several  occasions  Petite  M^re  found  her  sobbing,  wide- 
eyed  in  the  silence  of  the  night,  declaring  vehemently 
that  she  would  not  go  away  !  she  would  not  go  with 
"him!" 

But  gradually  the  fear  faded,  lulled  to  rest  and  security 
by  the  affection  which  surrounded  her. 

In  all  the  happy  years  Babette  never  knew  what  it 
was  to  receive  an  unkind  word.  When  any  act  of  child- 
ish naughtiness  rendered  correction  necessary,  it  was 
administered  by  P^re  Joseph  in  the  form  of  what  he 
termed  "une  petite  conversation." 

He  would  lead  her  to  the  summer-house  on  Mont 
Parnasse,   place  her   in  a  chair,   then  seating   himself 


DAYS   GONE   BY  28 

opposite  to  her,  would  commence  somewhat  after  this 
fashion. 

"Tiens  !  Mignonne,  there  is  then  a  weed  in  thy  heart's 
garden.  Let  us  seek  it  together,  thou  and  I,  that  we 
may  destroy  it.  It  is  perhaps  that  Httle  plant  of  selfish- 
ness at  which  we  dug  so  earnestly  a  little  while  ago  ! 
Bah  !  he  is  a  villain  !  that  little  fellow,  with  creeping 
roots  for  which  we  must  be  ever  on  the  watch.  Or  is  it, 
maybe,  a  tiny  shoot  of  pride,  with  thorns  and  prickly 
leaves  ?  It  is,  without  doubt,  a  serious  matter,  for  know, 
my  little  one,  that  of  such  small  beginnings  come  all 
the  big  evil  things.  Come,  then  !  let  us  discover  the 
enemy,  that  we  may  uproot  him,  so  that  he  trouble  us 
no  more,  hein  !  " 

That  was  the  best  of  Pere  Joseph — he  was  always  an 
ally.  He  never  said,  "Fight  thou  !  "  but  always  "Let  us 
fight  together,"  and  the  alliance  was  a  strong  one. 

And  as  time  wore  on  the  habit  of  mutual  sympathy 
and  mutual  understanding  engendered  by  these  "petites 
conversations,"  led  these  two,  so  dissimilar  in  point  of 
years,  to  a  very  close  companionship  of  heart  and  mind. 
Although  one  was  standing  on  the  threshold  of  the  halls 
of  childhood,  and  the  other  treading  with  firm  steps  the 
gentle  incline  which  slopes  down  to  the  great  Crossing, 
yet  there  was  so  much  of  the  eternal  child  in  the  simple 
heart  of  the  man — so  much  of  the  straightforward  fear- 
lessness which  is  the- panoply  of  youth,  that  the  girl, 
while  leaning  on  his  superior  wisdom  and  honouring 
him  above  all,  could  meet  him  on  equal  terms  and  claim 
him  as  her  friend. 

For  his  part,  it  was  his  delight  that  she  should  open 
her  heart  to  him  and  lead  him  into  the  secret  places  of 
her  thoughts,  to  those  Castles  of  Faerie  which  childhood 
builds,  and  which  are  so  real  until  the  vision  fades. 
Alas  !  only  till  then  !  Pere  Joseph  never  laughed  at  her 
dreams,  never  checked  the  constant  questioning,  the 
whys  and  wherefores  of  her  inquiring  mind. 

When  Babette  was  fifteen,  her  education  passed  into 
the  hands  of  the  good  nuns  at  the  Convent,  a  fact  which 
she  deplored,   because   the   lesson   hours  left   her  little 


24  A  DREAM  OF  BLUE    ROSES 

leisure  for  her  walks  and  talks  with  P^re  Joseph,  or  for 
the  household  tasks  in  which  it  was  her  delight  to  assist 
Petite  M^re.  But  in  the  evenings  when  work  was  over 
they  would  sit,  the  three  of  them,  in  the  little  salon,  their 
chairs  drawn  up  round  the  table,  whose  polished  surface 
reflected  equally  'Toinette's  zealous  care  and  the  glow 
of  the  lamplight. 

Babette  would  read  aloud,  and  Petite  M^re,  nodding 
over  her  sewing,  would  rouse  herself  to  listen  to  the 
animated  discussions  which-  arose  between  the  girl  and 
the  old  man  at  the  close  of  every  chapter.  The  field  of 
literature  in  which  they  roamed  was  a  wide  one — a  varied 
assortment  of  books,  French  and  English.  La  Fontaine, 
Shakespeare,  Racine,  Sir  Walter  Scott,  Dickens,  and 
many  more  beside,  and  Babette  wept  with  P^re  Joseph 
over  the  sorrows  of  "  Little  Nell,"  and  laughed  with  him 
over  the  adventures  of  the  person  whom  he  called  "le 
bon  Peekveek  !  "  Also,  following  Petite  Mare's  idea  of 
what  was  correct  for  a  well  brought-up  young  woman, 
she  shed  many  tears  in  the  solitude  of  her  own  room 
over  the  Heir  of  Redclyffe,  and  P^re  Joseph  made  a  little 
gentle  fun  at  her  when  he  heard  of  it. 

In  the  many  long  and  intimate  talks  she  and  P^re 
Joseph  had  together,  one  in  particular  remained  in 
Babette 's  memory  in  after  years,  for  although  by  God's 
mercy  the  future  is  hidden  from  us,  and  she  did  not 
know  it  at  the  time,  it  was  destined  to  be  their  last. 

They  were  sitting  together  as  they  loved  to  sit  when 
time  allowed  in  the  little  summer-house  on  Mont  Par- 
nasse.  It  was  summer  time,  and  under  the  clear  blue 
of  the  sky  the  river  flowed  serenely  and  peacefully 
between  its  grassy  banks.  The  girl's  outspoken  thoughts 
had  been  darting  from  this  to  that  as  freely  as  the  saffron 
butterflies  she  was  idly  watching,  fluttering  now  high, 
now  low,  in  the  warm  scented  air,  and  at  last  settled  on 
the  future — that  word  which  holds  so  much  magic  for 
the  young.  P^re  Joseph  leaned  back  in  his  chair,  only 
occasionally  rousing  himself  to  take  a  pinch  of  snuff, 
or  blow  his  nose  loudly,  with  his  blue  and  white  spotted 
handkerchief.     He  listened  intently,  nodding  his  head 


DAYS   GONE   BY  25 

sagely  now  and  then,  while  the  eager  voice  ran  on, 
painting  glowing  word  pictures  of  all  its  owner  would 
do  some  day — some  day.  Of  all  the  wonders  which  life 
should  hold  for  her,  all  the  dizzy  heights  of  knowledge 
to  which  she  would  attain,  and  all  the  splendours  she 
would  see. 

She  paused  and  glanced  at  her  companion  as  if  wait- 
ing for  his  approval  and  encouragement,  but  he  pursed 
his  lips  together  in  a  tender,  doubtful  fashion  and  offered 
words  of  counsel  and  caution. 

They  were  familiar  to  Babette,  for  they  were  a 
favourite  saying  of  his. 

"  It  is  not  wise  to  seek  blue  roses,  my  child,  they  grow 
not  often  in  this  world  of  ours.  Also  perchance  the 
search  may  lead  us  to  overlook  the  pink  ones  which  we 
may  find  in  plenty,  very  full  of  scent  and  fragrance,  all 
along  the  road." 

"So  thou  hast  frequently  said,  mon  pere,"  she 
answered,  "but  is  it  really  wrong  to  seek  the  blue 
ones  ?  " 

"It  is  not  wise,"  he  repeated,  "and  it  is  wrong  to 
think  that  life  holds  no  good  if  we  do  not  find  them." 

"But,"  she  persisted,  "some  people  have  found  them?" 
It  was  more  an  assertion  than  a  question. 

He  nodded.  "Maybe.  But  who  knows  if  they  were 
really  blue  ?  Roses  th^t  are  just  the  most  ordinary  pink 
ones  to  some  people,  may  seem  wondrously  blue  to  the 
eyes  of  others." 

"I  should  like  to  find  blue  roses,"  Babette  said  wist- 
fully. "  I  do  not  think  that  it  would  matter  to  me  if 
other  people  thought  they  were  pink,  so  that  I  myself 
knew  them  blue." 

"Well,  well,  ma  fille !  Who  shall  say  that  with  the 
good  God  anything  is  impossible  !  Some  hearts  must 
ever  seek,  and  to  these  come  sometimes  realizations  be- 
yond their  imaginings,  most  beautiful.  I  pray  that  so 
it  may  be  for  thee.  Yet,  I  repeat,  despise  not  the  pink 
roses  !  Heaven  is  ever  with  us ;  still,  even  so,  we  are 
not  yet  in  heaven,  and  on  this  earth  it  is  ever  wise  to 
value  the  good  things  which  assuredly  are  with  us  in 


26  A  DREAM  OF  BLUE  ROSES 

abundance.     Be  not  ever  yearning  for  what  thou  hast 
not." 

"But  all  are  not  so  happy  as  I  am  !  " 

"Happiness  is  not  for  all,  yet  all  may  know  content- 
ment. Some  would  still  find  cause  for  complaint  were 
the  stars  to  turn  into  louis  d'or  at  their  bidding.  Ever 
melancholy  !  ever  grumbling  !  Bah  !  I  cannot  endure 
to  hear  grumblings  !  the  devil's  paternosters,  no  more, 
no  less  I  " 

"But  many  are  in  trouble  !  " 

"That  cannot  be  denied.  It  is  not  easy,  this  life — 
of  a  truth  it  is  not  easy.  But  I  say,  pray  to  the  good 
God  to  clear  the  clouds  away.  And  always  remember, 
Mignonne,  that  it  is  the  clouds  that  bring  the  rain, 
without  which  no  plant  can  grow.  Note  also  that  it  is 
after  the  rain  that  the  scent  of  the  flowers  is  sweetest." 

"It  is  after  the  rain  that  we  gather  the  slugs,  thou  and 
I,"  the  girl  said  mischievously.  "  How  I  adored  gather- 
ing slugs  when  I  was  little. 

P^re  Joseph  chuckled.  "Better  the  gathering  of  the 
slugs  than  the  learning  of  thy  tasks.  Eh  !  it  was  so 
sometimes,  petite,  if  my  memory  is  true  !  " 

The  girl  leaned  forward,  her  elbows  on  her  knees,  her 
chin  supported  by  her  clasped  hands.  "I  did  not  mis- 
like  my  lessons — at  least,  not  always,"  she  said,  with  a 
smile. 

"They  were  at  times  a  serious  difficulty  to  thee,"  con- 
tinued the  old  man.  "That,  par  exemple,  is  also  the 
way  of  life.  What  was  once  a  mountain  and  very  steep 
to  climb  becomes  in  retrospect  a  mole-hill.  A  thing  to 
remember,  n'est-ce  pas?  Come,  I  have  moralized 
enough  for  to-day.     We  will  go  to  seek  Cherie." 

Arm  in  arm  they  walked  towards  the  house,  and  then, 
hearing  the  voice  of  Petite  M^re,  the  girl  ran  forward, 
leaving  her  companion  to  follow.  At  the  end  of  the 
path  she  turned  and  blew  him  a  kiss  from  the  tips  of 
her  fingers. 

P^re  Joseph  stood  still  and  watched  her,  then, 
removing  his  hat,  mopped  his  forehead  with  his 
handkerchief. 


DAYS   GONE   BY  27 

"Dieu  merci,"  he  said  reverently.  "She  is  still  a 
child  for  all  her  seventeen  years." 

A  few  more  weeks  passed,  each  day  with  its  round  of 
simple  duties — each  another  link  in  the  chain  which 
bound  them,  old  and  young  alike,  in  loving  unity. 
Home  life  and  home — a  life  which  nothing  could  disturb 
or  alter,  or  so  it  seemed  then. 

And  then  quite  suddenly  overwhelming  sorrow  fell 
upon  the  little  household — a  bolt  from  the  blue. 

It  was  August,  and  the  heat  had  for  some  days  been 
most  oppressive.  P^re  Joseph  departed  to  enjoy  his  nap 
after  dejeuner,  and  when  the  hour  for  his  return  arrived 
he  did  not  come. 

They  sought  him,  and  there,  in  the  Temple  de  la 
Reflexion,  they  found  him,  his  massive  head  bowed 
forward  upon  his  chest,  his  eyes  closed,  sleeping — the 
sleep  that  knows  no  waking  here  on  earth. 

And  then  all  the  troubles  began. 


CHAPTER    IV 

NEXT  MARKET   DAY 

"  Make  short  the  miles, 
With  talks  and  smiles." 

Cleopatre  was  an  ass  with  much  character;  Petite 
M^re  frequently  said  so,  and  it  was  undoubtedly  true. 
Whether,  however,  character  is  an  attribute  to  be 
desired  in  this  domestic  animal  is  doubtful.  It  makes 
for  independence  and  vagaries.  The  fact  that  she  had, 
entirely  uninstructed,  taken  upon  herself  the  role  of 
watchdog  to  the  Pavilion  des  Fleurs  singled  her  out 
from  others  of  her  breed.  Never  before  have  I  known 
a  watchdog  ass  heralding  all  comers  with  a  loud  and 
fearsome  bray.  But  it  cannot  be  denied  that  she  was 
greedy.  It  would  have  gone  hard  with  the  fowls  if 
Cleopatre  had  not  been  strictly  watched  during  their 
mealtime;  alone,  they  were  unable  to  defend  themselves. 
However  fast  they  gobbled,  she  invariably  secured  all 
the  choicest  scraps.  It  was  a  standing  grievance  with 
Alcibiade,  the  yellow  cock,  that  for  all  his  valour  and 
his  assaults  he  and  his  wives  should  be  robbed  in  this 
way.  It  depressed  him.  After  a  more  severe  encounter 
than  usual  he  almost  envied  Paul  and  Virginie,  the 
doves,  who  lived  in  the  big  wicker  cage  under  the  porch. 
They  were  captive,  it  is  true,  but  well  fed  and  secure. 
Alcibiades,  given  opportunity,  would  have  been  a 
gourmand. 

To  continue,  Cleopatre  was  variable.  On  some  days 
she  would  come  in  answer  to  Babette's  call  with  the 
abject  expression  of  a  martyr  going  to  the  stake ;  on 
others  she  would  be  coy,  starting  this  way  and  that, 
and,  if  pursued,  she  would  career  around  the  orchard, 
dodging  the  low  branches  of  the  gnarled  apple-trees 

28 


NEXT  MARKET  DAY  29 

with  maddening  dexterity,  her  long  ears  waving,  her 
tail  erect. 

There  was  no  counting  on  her.  It  w^as  the  same  in 
the  shafts  :  she  might  trot  along  gaily,  her  little  hoofs 
click-clacking  merrily  on  the  road,  as  if  life  was  a 
pleasure ;  or,  again,  she  might  not ! 

She  could  be  gay,  or  she  could  be  serious.  On  occa- 
sions she  seemed  to  be  possessed  of  a  devil,  and,  shying 
wildly  at  nothing,  would  come  to  a  standstill,  her  feet 
planted  securely,  her  ears  well  forward.  Both  Babette 
and  Petite  M^re  well  knew  that  when  once  she  took 
this  attitude  there  was  no  hope.  They  might  attempt 
to  drag  her,  but,  as  Petite  M^re  said,  it  would  require  a 
locomotive.  In  vain  blows  thundered  like  hailstones  on 
her  back  and  sides,  they  were  disregarded;  words  of 
vehemence  and  dire  import  were  showered  upon  her  in 
vain.  And  then,  all  of  a  sudden,  when  she  chose,  on 
she  would  go  with  most  irritating  composure,  and 
smiling  (if  asses  can  smile)  with  overwhelming  satis- 
faction. Ah,  no,  Cleopatre  may  have  possessed  char- 
acter, but  she  was  not  dependable. 

And  so,  next  market  day,  Babette,  wise  from  bitter 
experience,  was  up  betimes.  And  because  she  had  got 
up  early,  and  because  there  was  plenty  of  time,  Cleopatre 
came  to  her  call  like  a  lamb,  and  behaved  with  exemplary 
propriety,  allowing  herself  to  be  harnessed  and  led  to 
the  front  door. 

Presently  Petite  Mere  and  Melanie  appeared.  The 
latter  was  full  of  instructions.  "Thou  wilt  not  forget, 
ma  soeur,  we  need  candles  and  rice.  Ah  !  and  did  I 
tell  thee  of  the  fecule  ?  The  sort  that  they  sell  in 
packets — not  in  tins.  Also  a  little  nutmeg  would  be 
useful." 

Petite  jM^re  stepped  into  the  cart.  "Rest  assured, 
ma  soeur,  I  will  not  forget." 

"Adieu,  ma  petite,"  continued  Melanie,  "be  content. 
I  will  make  thee  '  little  wings  of  angels  '  before  thy 
return.     Des  aillettes  d'anges." 

"That  will  be  good.  I  adore  the  little  cakes,  as  thou 
well  knowest."     Babette  took  her  seat.     There  was  an 


30  A  DREAM   OF   BLUE   ROSES 

element  of  uncertainty  about  these  expeditions — all 
depended  on  Cl^opatre;  but  the  little  animal  gave  a 
wave  of  her  ears  and  ai  flick  of  her  tail  and  trotted  off 
most  cheerfully. 

"Tiens!  she  is  gay  to-day,  the  little  Cleopatre,"  said 
Petite  M^re  in  a  tone  of  satisfaction. 

To  which  Babette,  who  was  driving,  replied  fervently, 
"  God  be  thanked." 

Petite  M^re  opened  the  bag  she  carried.  "Let  us 
see.  What  was  it  that  Melanie  said  at  the  last  moment  ? 
Rice  and   fecule — and   something   else  ?  " 

"Candles,  wasn't  it?"  replied  Babette. 

"Candles,  that  was  it.  Here  I  have  the  list  of  the 
other  things.  Now,  Mignonne,  if  Cleopatre  will  but 
trot  to  the  station  in  time  to  catch  the  train,  all  will  be 
well." 

"We  have  nearly  an  hour  in  which  to  do  three  miles," 
said  Babette,  glancing  at  her  watch. 

The  ass  trotted  on,  up  the  lane  with  the  high  banks 
on  either  side,  past  the  thatched  cottage,  past  the  little 
Calvary  where  the  country  people  were  wont  to  pray  for 
the  success  of  their  crops,  past  the  little  church,  and  so, 
with  a  turn  to  the  left,  out  on  to  the  high  road,  where  a 
band  of  straying  pigs  nearly  shattered  her  equanimity, 
but  they  were  safely  passed. 

"Petite  Mere,  you  never  told  me  of  your  conversation 
with  Madame  Laurent ;  what  did  she  say  ?  " 

"She  came,  little  one,  to  demand  thy  hand  in  marriage 
for  her  son,  Jean  Paul.  She  said  it  was  not  her  wish — 
you  were  English,  you  were  heretique ;  this  last,  by  the 
way,  she  seemed  to  think  could  be  remedied,  but  she  had 
decided  to  be  magnanimous.  She  spoke  well  of  her 
son,  of  her  desire  to  see  his  children — of  this  and  that ; 
but  I  explained  to  her  that  thou  art  going  to  England, 
and  that  it  is  quite  impossible.  She  was  very 
much  vexed,  and  that  is  why  she  would  not  wait  for 
coffee." 

"The  children  of  Jean  Paul,"  said  the  girl  reflectively. 
"Oh,  Petite  M^re,  canst  thou  not  see  them — small 
editions  of  Jean  Paul,  with  pale  hair  and  watery  eyes, 


NEXT   MARKET   DAY  81 

wearing  shiny  sailor  hats  and  knickerbockers  and  striped 
socks,  and  all  very  much  in  awe  of  Grandmamma  ?  " 

"Do  not  laugh,  ma  fiUe,"  urged  Petite  M^re,  "he  is 
a  good  son." 

"He  is  a:  feeble,  downtrodden  thing  without  the 
courage  of  a  mouse." 

"Non,  non,  thou  hast  wrong,  he  has  been  brave  in 
this  matter  :  he  has  defied  his  mother — he  loves  thee 
well !  " 

And  because  it  is  not  unpleasant  to  be  loved,  even  by 
the  Jean  Pauls  of  this  world — at  a  distance,  be  it  under- 
stood— the  girl  was  silent  and  relapsed  into  thought. 

"I  have  no  desire  to  marry,  Petite  M^re,"  she  said  at 
last. 

"But  why?  thou  wilt  find  a  good  husband  when  the 
good  God  wills.  A  good  husband  like  my  Joseph,  that 
is  what  I  wish  for  thee." 

"Ah,  but,"  and  the  girl's  voice  grew  tender,  "I  do 
not  think  that  the  world  can  hold  another  like  P^re 
Joseph  !  No,  I  have  no  desire  to  marry.  Or,  when  I 
do,"  she  added  lightly,  "he  shall  be  tall  with  blue  eyes, 
and  I  think  he  must  be  a  soldier.  But  that  will  not  be 
for  many  years.  First  I  find  my  fortune,  and  then  we 
travel,  thou  and  I,  Petite  M^re.  Oh  !  I  have  so  many 
dreams  about  that  happy  time." 

"  God  grant  thou  art  not  disappointed,  my  little  one  !  " 

"Have  I  no  right  to  dream?"  asked  Babette  quickly. 
"Do  I  but  seek  blue  roses,  Petite  Mere?  Is  it  all 
impossible  ?  " 

"No,  no,"  said  Petite  M^re  soothingly,  "nothing  is 
impossible.  Dream  thy  happy  dreams,  jMignonne,  the 
dreams  of  youth."  But  in  her  heart  of  hearts  she  was 
praying — praying  that  there  should  be  no  disappoint- 
ment, no  sad  awakening  for  her  beloved — that  strength 
might  be  given  to  the  child  to  meet  whatever  the  future 
had  in  store. 

In  consequence  of  the  gay  mood  of  CMopatre  they 
arrived  at  the  station  in  ample  time  to  deliver  her  into 
the  custody  of  Emile  Martel,  the  friendly  blacksmith, 
who  lived  just  opposite.    Every  market  day  he  received 


32  A  DREAM  OF  BLUE  ROSES 

her  with  the  same  words,  "Rest  assured,  Madame,  she 
shall  be  safe  with  me,"  and  always  in  the  evening  he 
returned  her,  saying,  "Tiens,  Madame,  you  find  her 
safe,  n'est-ce  pas  ?     Ears  and  tail  all  complete." 

The  train  was,  as  a  rule,  a  little  crowded  on  these  days, 
but  what  matter  ?  since  most  of  the  travellers  were  well 
known  to  each  other,  and  so  full  of  cheerful  gossip  that 
the  journey — a  distance  only  of  a  few  miles — was  all  too 
short  for  what  they  had  to  say. 

"Bonjour,  Madame!  Bonjour,  Mademoiselle!"  said 
a  stout  farmer's  wife,  as  she  hoisted  herself  into  the  high 
railway  carriage,  with  many  a  grunt  and  not  a  little 
friendly  assistance  from  behind.  "Assuredly  it  is  good 
weather  we  are  having.  Some  days  of  this,  and  we 
shall  see  the  green  buds  peeping  out  on  every  side. 
Excellent  weather,  too,  for  the  poultry.  Verily,  my 
young  ducks  grow  as  if  they  were  in  a  hurry  for  their 
turn  for  market.  Ah  !  there  is  news  this  week ;  Bien, 
sure  !  Have  you  not  already  heard  it?  It  is  Jean  Paul 
Laurent,  who  marries  himself  to  Marie  Bigot !  Ha,  ha  ! 
she  is  a  clever  woman,  Madame  Laurent,  for  the  girl 
has  a  good  *  dot '  and  a  nice  little  piece  of  land." 

"That  may  be,"  rejoined  another  speaker,  "but  she 
has  a  body  as  crooked  as  a  faggot-stick  and  two  eyes 
which  cross  each  other  like  a  pair  of  shears  !  " 

Petite  M^re  and  Babette  exchanged  glances  of  amuse- 
ment. Madame  Laurent,  woman  of  business,  had 
evidently  proved  herself  equal  to  the  occasion — she  had 
wasted  no  time. 

"Well,  well,  that  may  be  so,"  said  the  farmer's  wife 
placidly,  "but  beauty  is  worth  little  after  all.  For  me, 
give  me  something  in  the  bank,  that  is  the  first  thing. 
Take,  par  exemple,  Jules  Leroy;  he  must  needs  go 
dancing  off  to  Rouen, f  and  return  with  a  wife  with 
nothing  in  the  world  to  recommend  her  but  a  pretty 
face.  And  what  now?  a  house  like  a  pigsty,  and 
neglected  children !  I  tell  you  she  is  an  imbecile ! 
Hardly  knowing  the  difference  between  a  carrot  and  a 
turnip ;  and  as  for  making  butter,  my  faith,  it  is  a  thing 
impossible  for  her !     Marie  Bigot  may  not  be  beautiful, 


NEXT   MARKET   DAY  88 

but  when  all  is  finished  she  is  as  the  good  God  made 
her — and  the  money  is  there,  right  enough  !  " 

"That  is  a  question  for  the  husband  to  decide,  after 
all ;  but  for  my  part  I  pity  him,  poor  devil,  to  wake  up 
to  a  face  like  that  every  morning." 

"Tchut!  tchut !  No  man  remembers  the  colour  of 
his  wife's  eyes  a  fortnight  after  the  honeymoon,  and 
in  the  dark  all  cats  are  grey  !  " 

And  then  the  arrival  of  the  train  at  F«6camp  put  an 
end  to  the  discussion. 

"Oh,  Petite  M^re,"  said  Babette  as  they  walked  out 
of  the  station,  "canst  thou  not  smell  the  sea?  How 
good  it  is  !  " 

"I  smell  fish,"  was  the  decided  reply.  "But  now, 
my  child,  hurry  ourselves.  We  will  attend  to  the  house- 
hold business,  and  then  we  will  go  to  Monsieur  Legrand. 
Thou  hast  the  ring  safely  ?  " 

"Yes,  I  have  it  secure  under  my  glove.  Oh,  Petite 
M^re,  it  is  hard  to  part  with,  but  Enfin  !  it  cannot  be 
helped,  so  why  grieve  ?  " 

The  market  place  was  crowded  with  stalls.  Later  on 
in  the  year  umbrellas  would  be  fastened  up  to 
protect  wares  of  a  perishable  nature  from  the  sun  ; 
huge  umbrellas,  red  or  blue  or  green,  like  giant 
mushrooms  in  some  fairy  pantomime,  but  for  the  present 
they  were  unnecessary.  Buxom  dames  in  spotless  white 
caps  sat  knitting,  their  tongues  going  all  the  while  in 
cheerful  badinage  with  their  neighbours  and  friends. 
Stalwart  fishermen  lounged  about,  their  loose  brown 
overalls  stained  to  a  rich  umber,  which  showed  tones  of 
orange  and  even  of  vermilion  in  the  sunshine.  Children 
pattered  about  with  a  clatter  of  their  wooden  sabots, 
shouting  and  gesticulating,  and  everywhere  there  was 
gaiety  and  noise. 

Petite  Mere  did  not  linger.  She  had  plenty  of 
experience  to  guide  her,  and  knew  to  a  nicety  the  value 
of  all  she  wished  to  buy,  so  her  bargaining  was  short 
and  decisive.  If  her  price  was  not  acceptable,  Bien  ! 
she  went  elsewhere.  She  trotted  round,  exchanging 
friendly  greetings  here  and  there,  until  all  was  done, 

D 


34  A  DREAM  OF  BLUE  ROSES 

and  then  they  walked  quickly  down  the  Rue  Alexandre 
Legros,  until  they  came  to  a  small  jeweller's  shop.  The 
doorway  was  low  and  the  interior  very  dark.  Behind 
the  narrow  counter  stood  a  wizened  little  old  man,  who 
greeted  them  civilly.     They  were  no  strangers. 

"I  come  not  as  a  purchaser  to-day,  Monsieur,"  Petite 
M6re  began.  "On  the  contrary  I  bring  a  ring.  It  is 
your  habit  on  occasions  not  to  sell  but  to  purchase — is  it 
not  so  ?  " 

"That  is  sometimes  the  case,"  he  replied,  bowing. 
"If  Madame  will  permit  me  but  for  a  moment  to  see 
the  article.  .  .  ." 

Babette  had  taken  off  her  glove,  and  now  drew  from 
her  finger  an  old-fashioned  ring  in  which  was  set  one 
large  diamond  surrounded  by  a  design  of  blue  enamel. 
It  was  her  most  cherished  possession,  and  had  been 
bequeathed  to  her  by  an  old  lady  in  Le  Petit  Andely 
who  had  been  much  attached  to  her.  The  legacy  had 
been  quite  unexpected,  and  both  P^re  Joseph  and  Petite 
M^re  had  been  surprised  that  the  girl  had  been  left 
so  valuable  a  souvenir. 

M.  Legrand  took  the  ring,  and  fixing  a  glass  in 
his  eye,  examined  it  in  silence.  A  silence  which  lasted 
so  long  that  Petite  M^re  grew  alarmed. 

"It  is  old,"  she  remarked,  in  a  voice  which,  in  spite 
of  all  her  efforts,  sounded  anxious.  "It  is  old,  and  of 
great  value." 

"It  is  old,  Madame,  but  it  is  not  antique,"  returned 
the  jeweller. 

"But  it  is  of  great  value,"  insisted  Petite  M^re  again. 

"Permit  me,  Madame,  that  I  take  it  to  a  better  light. 
Pardon  me  a  little  moment  only." 

Petite  Mere  and  Babette  looked  into  each  other's  eyes, 
but  said  no  word.  Why  should  Monsieur  Legrand 
hesitate  even  for  a  moment  to  buy  so  beautiful  a 
ring? 

Then  he  returned.  "I  ask  pardon,  Mesdames,  that  I 
detain  you.  I  regret  that  I  am  unable  to  purchase  this 
article ;  it  is  pretty— of  that  there  is  no  doubt — but,  enfin, 
I  regret  much." 


NEXT   MARKET   DAY  85 

Petite  M^re  took  the  ring.  "The  stone  is  large,"  she 
urged. 

"The  stone  is  large,"  he  agreed,  "but  I  assure  you, 
Madame,  such  a  thing  as  this  would  be  difficult  for  me 
to  sell — it  is  not  marketable."  He  spoke  kindly  but 
decidedly. 

Petite  M^re  controlled  herself,  but  her  face  was  rather 
white.  "Well,  well.  Monsieur,  since  that  is  your 
opinion,  there  is  no  more  to  be  said.  I  thank  you.  I 
wish  you  good  day." 

And  with  this  she  walked  out  of  the  shop,  followed 
by  the  girl,  still  holding  the  ring.  Once  on  the  pave- 
ment they  turned  and  faced  each  other. 

"Oh,  Petite  M^re,"  cried  Babette.  "What  shall  we 
do  ?    The  money  I  must  have — or " 

"There  is  no  one  else  here  that  I  know  of  to  whom 
we  could  take  it.  Wait,  my  child,  let  me  think  for  an 
instant." 

Then  a  friendly  voice  raised  in  cheerful  greeting 
surprised  them,  and  they  both  started  at  the  sound. 

"  Bonjour,  Madame !  Bonjour,  Mademoiselle !  I 
hope  I  see  you  well."  A  dapper  little  man,  with  a 
bristling  and  very  fierce  white  moustache,  stood  before 
them,  holding  out  his  hand." 


D  2 


CHAPTER    V 


KINDLY   MEETING 


"Friendship,  'tis  said,  is  love  without  his  wings, 
And  friendship,  Sir,  is  sweet  enough  for  me." 

Alfred  Austin. 

Petite  Mere  was  the  first  to  find  her  voice.  "Why, 
Monsieur  Menoux,"  she  exclaimed,  "I  am  rejoiced  to 
see  you." 

"  It  is  good  fortune  that  we  meet,"  responded  the  new- 
comer, wringing  her  warmly  by  the  hand;  "and  now 
you  must  both  come  to  dejeuner.  The  Abbey  Church 
clock  has  just  struck  the  hour.  Mais  non,  I  take  no 
refusal.  My  wife  would  indeed  be  chagrined  if  I  told 
her  I  was  unable  to  persuade  you  to  partake  of  our 
hospitality.  Truly,  Madame,  I  insist !  In  truth,  I  do 
not  now  care  to  go  home  alone  !  "  He  spread  out  his 
hands  in  mock  horror.  "I  assure  you  that  above  all 
things  I  dread  my  wife  when  she  is  angry.  I  tell 
you  in  confidence  that  she  can  be,  on  occasion,  most 
violent  I  " 

Babette  burst  out  laughing.  The  little  man's  droll 
way  of  speaking,  the  mischievous  twinkle  in  his  eyes, 
and,  above  all,  his  ridiculous  description  of  Madame 
Menoux,  kindest  of  women,  were  irresistible. 

"Voila!"  he  continued,  highly  delighted.  "Made- 
moiselle is  on  my  side;  the  victory  is  mine.  That  is 
excellent.  Come,  Madame,  take  my  arm.  So  !  I  doubt 
not  that,  like  myself,  you  find  the  first  sunshine  of  spring 
a  little  trying.  You  have  an  air  of  fatigue  .  .  .  permit 
that  I  relieve  you  of  the  merchandise.  So  !  All  is  well, 
n'est-ce  pas?  And  the  other  arm  is  for  Mademoiselle, 
if  she  will  avail  herself  of  it." 

Babette  laughingly  declined,  and,  chattering  gaily  the 

36 


KINDLY   MEETING  87 

while,  Monsieur  Menoux  escorted  them  down  the  Rue 
Theag^ne  Bouffart,  that  long  street  which  traverses  the 
site  of  the  Benedictine  Monastery,  once  so  famous  for 
its  manufacture  of  liqueur. 

On  arrival  at  his  house,  which  stands  about  half-way 
down  the  street  on  the  left-hand  side,  his  wife  came 
hurrying  to  meet  them  in  answer  to  his  call. 

"Tiens,"  she  said,  "I  am  delighted  to  see  you,  and 
Mademoiselle  Babette  .  .  .  you  are  most  welcome. 
Dejeuner  will  be  ready  at  the  instant.  Annette  just 
breaks  the  eggs  into  the  pan." 

The  warmth  of  the  welcome  and  the  kind  words  of 
the  worthy  couple  soon  raised  the  drooping  spirits  of 
Babette,  but  Petite  M^re  seemed  unlike  herself,  distraite 
and  silent,  and  she  was,  to  Madame's  distress,  unable  to 
do  justice  to  the  excellent  fare  set  before  them. 

After  a  while  Babette  communicated  the  news  of  her 
approaching  departure. 

"  What !  Impossible  !  "  cried  Madame  Menoux, 
throwing  up  her  hands  in  surprise.  "You  go  to 
England  .  .  .  across  the  sea?" 

"  Ah  !  Mademoiselle,  do  not  leave  us,  I  pray,"  begged 
her  husband.  "Are  there  pot,  then,  sufficient  distrac- 
tions for  you  here,  in  the  land  of  France?  Why  must 
you  go  ?  " 

To  which  the  girl  answered,  half  in  jest  and  half  in 
earnest,  "  I  go  to  seek  my  fortune  !  " 

"Ah  !  "  said  the  little  man,  "it  is,  then,  an  adventure ! 
Mademoiselle  Jason  !  Permit  me  to  salute  you  !  "  He 
rose  to  his  feet,  and  made  her  a  low  bow.  "I  wish  you 
good  luck,  and  may  you  speedily  return,  bearing  the 
Golden  Fleece." 

"God  grant  that  it  be  not  '  un  peau  de  chagrin,'  "  said 
Madame  Menoux  devoutly.  "This  England,  it  is  a 
barbarous  country." 

"But  Mademoiselle  has  been  there  before,  is  it  not  so? 
I  am  not  sure ;  I  cannot  well  remember." 

"Verily  it  is  an  adventure,"  ejaculated  Madame 
Menoux. 

Petite  M^re,  who  had  hitherto  taken  no  part  in  the 


88  A  DREAM   OF   BLUE   ROSES 

conversation,  roused  herself.  "But  she  speaks  English 
with  ease.  She  has,  I  can  assure  you,  a  most  thorough 
knowledge  of  the  language." 

"C'est  bon  !  And  now,  Madame,  another  cup  of 
coffee,  or  a  little  glass  of  anisette.  Oh  !  but  yes,  I  pray 
you ;  you  have  eaten  nothing." 

Presently  they  moved  into  an  adjoining  apartment, 
and  Madame  Menoux  excused  herself  for  a  moment. 
She  had  an  order  to  give,  and  would  return  without 
delay. 

"Be  seated,  Madame;  be  seated,  Mademoiselle,"  said 
their  kind  host.  "Stay  just  a  little  while,  I  pray  you." 
Then,  drawing  a  chair  close  to  them,  he  sat  down  and 
said  gently — 

"Madame,  pardon  me  if  I  appear  intrusive.  I  assure 
you  that  it  is  from  no  idle  curiosity  that  I  ask,  but  it  has 
appeared  to  me  that  you  were  somewhat  troubled.  I 
may  have  been  mistaken,  but  will  you  not  confide  in  me  ? 
If  there  is  anything  that  I  could " 

Petite  M^re  did  not  reply  for  a  moment,  and  then, 
speaking  more  impulsively  than  usual,  she  said,  "I  will 
not  disguise  from  you.  Monsieur,  that  we  have  this 
morning   had   a — slight — embarrassment.      We   visited 

Monsieur    Legrand "    she    stammered,    and    looked 

piteously  across  at  Babette. 

"It  was  a  question  of  a  ring.  Monsieur,"  explained  the 
girl;  "a  ring  of  which  we  desired  to  dispose,  and  Mon- 
sieur Legrand  felt  unable  to  assist  us.  Perhaps  you 
might  tell  us  of  some  one  who  might  be  willing.  You 
see,  it  is  necessary  that  I  have  the  money  for  my  visit 
to  England." 

"It  would  be  a  convenience,"  corrected  Petite  M^re. 
"The  ring  is  old  and  of  great  value." 

"Will  you  allow  me  to  see  it?"  asked  Monsieur 
Menoux.  "I  know  a  man  in  this  town  who  might, 
perhaps,  interest  himself." 

Madame  handed  it  to  him,  and,  taking  it  to  the 
window,  he  held  it  first  this  way  and  then  that,  in  order 
that  the  light  might  play  upon  the  stone. 

"It  is — charming,"  he  said  at  length.     "If  you  will 


KINDLY   MEETING  39 

allow  me,  I  will  go  and  speak  with  the  man  I  mentioned. 
He  lives  close  by.    You  will  excuse  me?    Hein  !  " 

At  this  moment  Madame  Menoux  entered,  nearly- 
colliding  with  her  husband  in  the  doorway.  "Ah  !  thou 
art  here;  that  is  well.  Engage  Madame  for  a  few 
minutes  in  conversation.  There  is  a  little  affair  to  be 
arranged."    And  he  hurried. off. 

"There  is  a  favour  we  would  ask  of  you,  Madame 
Menoux,"  said  Petite  M^re.  "  It  is  this  :  it  is  necessary 
that  Babette  shall  carry  with  her  to  England  a  few  letters 
of  recommendation,  for  purposes  of  identification  merely, 
and  I  thought  that  perhaps  you  would  oblige  us  with 
one,  having  known  her  for  some  years." 

"Why,  of  a  certainty  I  will  do  so,"  replied  Madame 
Menoux.  "I  wish  with  all  my  heart  she  were  not  going 
to  that  barbarous  country ;  but  since  she  will  go,  let  us 
do  all  in  our  power  to  help  her.  Also,  an  idea  arrives 
to  me.  Mademoiselle  stays  in  London,  perhaps,  in 
passing  to  her  friends.  I  can  recommend  to  you  an 
hotel  where  she  may  safely  stay.  It  is  small  and  quiet, 
and  the  wife  of  the  proprietor  is  French,  and  a  native 
of  Fecamp.     That  would  be  useful,   n'est-ce  pas?" 

"  I  thank  you  a  thousand  tiipes,"  said  Babette  warmly. 
"You  are  most  kind." 

"  When  do  you  take  your  departure  ?  "  was  Madame's 
next  question. 

They  continued  chatting  pleasantly  till  Monsieur 
returned. 

His  face  was  a  little  flushed,  and  he  spoke  with  some 
hesitation.  "Ah  !  dear  INIadame  !  I  fear  I  have  had  no 
great  success  !  My  friend  was  interested.  Oh  yes,  he 
said  the  ring  was  charming,  but  alas  !  " 

"  He  will  not  buy  it  ?  "  asked  Petite  M^re  anxiously. 

"He  will  buy  it,  yes — but  only  at  a  price.  Indeed, 
Madame,  I  fear  to  mention  the  sum  he  names.  It  is  so 
small !  " 

"What  was  it?"  asked  Babette.  "Please  tell  us." 

Monsieur  Menoux  spread  out  both  hands  in  a  depre- 
catory gesture.  "Enfin.  Madame,"  he  said,  "he  will 
but  offer  three  hundred  francs !  " 


40  A   DREAM   OF   BLUE   ROSES 

"Three  hundred  francs  only!"  repeated  Petite  M^re 
in  a  dull,  strained  voice. 

"Three  hundred  francs!  "  repeated  Babette  in  a  tone 
of  satisfaction.  "Oh  !  Petite  Mere,  let  us  accept  it!  It 
will  take  me  to  England ! "  And  in  truth  the  sum 
seemed  a  fortune  to  the  girl. 

"Three  hundred  francs  !  "  repeated  Petite  M^re  again, 
very  low.     "I  had  hoped  for  at  least  a  thousand." 

"How  much  is  that  in  English  money,  Monsieur?" 
asked  Babette. 

"Three  hundred  francs  equals  about  twelve  pounds 
sterling."  He  put  his  hand  into  his  pocket  and  drew 
out  some  notes.  "  I  have  it  here ;  my  friend  suggested  I 
should  bring  it,  in  case  you  decide " 

"Oh  yes,  Monsieur,  we  decide,"  she  cried  quickly. 
"Is  it  not  so,  Petite  M^re?  Yes,  we  thank  Monsieur, 
your  friend,  and  we  will  accept  what  he  offers." 

"  Bien  !  I  am  glad,"  he  said,  as  he  handed  over  the 
notes.  "The  ring  I  will  deliver  to  him  a  little  later, 
after  your  departure.     For  that  there  is  no  hurry." 

Petite  M^re  rose  to  her  feet.  There  was  a  curious  look 
of  determination  on  her  face.  "Mignonne,"  she  said, 
still  speaking  in  that  odd,  strained  voice,  "I  leave  you 
for  a  few  minutes  with  our  kind  friends.  I  have  a  little 
commission.  ...  I  am  sure,  Madame,  that  you  will  not 
object  to  my  leaving  her  here  for  a  little  moment." 

"But  certainly!"  exclaimed  Monsieur  and  Madame 
with  one  voice;  and  the  latter  added,  "I  will  occupy 
myself  by  writing  the  letter,  while  Mademoiselle  con- 
verses with  my  husband." 

"Shall  I  not  accompany  you.  Petite  M^re?"  asked 
Babette,  wondering  a  little  at  the  unusual  proceeding. 

"Mais  non,  mais  non  !  "  replied  Petite  Mere,  and  in 
another  moment  she  was  gone. 

Once  in  the  street,  she  retraced  her  steps  by  the  way 
by  which  they  had  come,  up  the  Rue  Th^ag^ne  Bouflfart, 
and  along  the  Rue  Alexandre  Legros,  until  she  came  to 
the  little  jeweller's  shop.  Glancing  quickly,  almost  fur- 
tively, to  right  and  left,  to  make  quite  sure  that  she  was 
unobserved,  she  opened  the  door  and  stepped  inside. 


KINDLY   MEETING  41 

Monsieur  Legrand  gave  her  his  customary  greeting, 
mailing  no  allusion  to  her  previous  visit.  Petite  M^re 
spoke  no  word.  She  laid  her  little  bag  upon  the  counter, 
she  drew  off  her  gloves ;  then,  stooping  low,  she  fumbled 
for  the  pocket  under  her  skirt.  The  shop  was  very 
quiet,  and  in  the  silence  her  breathing  was  very  audible, 
quick  and  fast,  like  that  of  a  man  who  has  been  running. 
At  last  she  pulled  out  a  small  washleather  bag,  tied  at 
the  neck  with  a  piece  of  black  tape.  It  took  her  some 
moments  to  disentangle  the  knot,  for  her  hands  were 
shaking  as  with  a  palsy,  but  at  last  she  succeeded,  and 
slowly,  and  with  infinite  care,  almost  as  though  she 
would  fain  linger  over  the  task,  she  drew  out  a  large 
gold  watch,  which  she  placed  in  the  old  man's  out- 
stretched hand. 

And  still  she  spoke  no  word. 

"Madame  desires  to  sell?"  he  said  gently. 

Petite  Mere  nodded;  her  eyes  were  fixed  upon  the 
watch,  as  Monsieur  Legrand  turned  it  over  and  opened 
the  back  to  examine  the  works. 

"It  is  a  good  Geneva  watch,"  he  said  at  last.  "Old, 
of  course,  and  much  worn,  Madame,  but  by  a  good 
maker.  A  man's  watch  will  command  a  higher  price  in 
these  days  than  a  lady's.  I  will  give  one  hundred  and 
twenty-live  francs,  if  that  is  agreeable  to  Madame." 

Again  Petite  Mere  nodded. 

Monsieur  Legrand  laid  it  down,  and  with  a  murmured 
word  of  excuse  walked  away  into  his  little  back  parlour 
to  fetch  the  money.  He  was  gone  for  a  few  moments, 
and  when  he  returned  Petite  M^re  was  standing  as  he 
had  left  her.  She  was  holding  the  watch  in  one  trem- 
bling, toilworn  hand,  while  with  the  other  she  stroked  it, 
gently  and  tenderly,  as  one  might  stroke  the  face  of  an 
old  friend  in  the  hour  of  parting,  or  maybe  the  hour  of 
death.  Her  eyes  were  full  of  tears,  her  face  ashen  white, 
and  her  lips  were  moving,  forming  a  stream  of  tender 
words,  quite  inaudible,  but  infinitely  pitiful  to  see. 

The  man  stood  in  silence ;  she  did  not  appear  to  notice 
his  approach.  He  waited  a  little  while;  then  he  said 
quietly,  "  One  hundred  and  twenty-five  francs,  Madame." 


42  A   DREAM  OF   BLUE   ROSES 

Petite  M^re  started;  a  little  shudder  passed  over  her 
slight  form.  Then  she  laid  the  watch  down  on  the 
counter,  and  took  the  money  he  offered.  She  opened  her 
bag  to  place  it  within,  and  then  she  stopped  as  if  struck 
by  some  sudden  thought.  Raising  her  face  to  his  for 
the  first  time  during  the  interview,  "Monsieur  has  by 
chance  some  English  money?"  she  asked. 

The  question  seemed  to  rid  the  moment  of  the 
emotional  strain  of  which  the  man,  with  the  ready 
sympathy  of  his  nation,  was  only  too  conscious.  "But 
yes,  Madame.  By  a  lucky  chance  it  happens  that  on 
this  occasion  I  have.  It  is  not  very  often  the  case,  but 
only  yesterday  an  American  gentleman  bought  from  me 
a  piece  of  antique  silver,  and  paid  me  part  of  the  purchase 
money  with  a  note  for  five  pounds  sterling.  I  shall  be 
glad  to  hand  it  to  Madame,  if  she  desires  it." 

"It  would  be  convenient  to  me,"  said  Petite  ]\I^re. 

The  exchange  was  soon  effected,  and,  wishing  the  man 
good-day,  she  walked  out  of  the  shop. 

Mechanically,  almost  as  if  without  any  conscious 
volition  on  her  part,  she  turned  in  the  direction  of  the 
Rue  Th^ag^ne  Bouffart. 

A  mist  floated  in  front  of  her,  blinding  her  old  eyes 
to  her  surroundings.  Only  this  one  thought  filled  her 
mind  :  that  there,  behind  her,  in  the  shop  of  Monsieur 
Legrand,  she  had  bartered  for  a  paltry  sum  what  repre- 
sented to  her  far  more  than  the  wealth  of  all  the  Indies; 
something  so  charged  with  memories  of  days  that  could 
never  return — memories  of  her  husband  and  her  home-- 
that  it  seemed  as  if  some  vital  part  of  her  was  left  behind 
with  it.  It  seemed  to  her,  in  her  anguish  of  mind,  as  if 
she  had  betrayed  her  love. 

An  almost  irresistible  impulse  seized  her  to  return,  to 
fling  the  money  in  his  face,  to  cancel  her  sacrifice.  How 
could  she  bear  it  ?  What  consolation  was  left  to  her  for 
the  long,  lonely  watches  of  the  night,  without  even  the 
familiar  sound  that  she  had  known  for  all  these  many, 
many  years,  so  long,  indeed,  that  it  had  seemed  like  the 
voice  of  a  friend  in  the  darkness  ! 

Then  she  remembered.     The  flimsy  square  of  paper 


KINDLY  MEETING  48 

meant  also  much.  More  than  betrayal  of  the  dead,  it 
meant  security  for  the  living — for  the  purpose  for  which 
she  designed  it  was  the  safeguarding  of  all  that  was  left 
to  her  to  love  in  life.  Regrets  were  selfish  things  at 
best.  What  she  had  to  do  now  was  to  thank  God  that 
the  money  had  been  obtainable;  and  for  the  rest — well, 
Joseph  knew,  and  would  understand.  Joseph  had  always 
understood. 

It  was  later  in  the  afternoon,  and  Monsieur  and 
.Madame  Menoux  were  alone.  They  had  been  gently 
discussing  the  visitors  who  had  just  left  them.  "It  is  a 
great  enterprise,"  Monsieur  was  saying,  "this  journey  of 
Alademoiselle  Babette.  Madame  Maurice  was  troubled 
— I  could  see  it  well." 

"What  of  the  ring?"  asked  his  wife.  "I  was  not 
present  during  some  of  the  conversation  regarding  it." 

Monsieur  Menoux  took  it  from  his  pocket,  and  handed 
it  to  her. 

"The  price  was  small  for  so  beautiful  a  diamond,"  she 
said  sorrowfully. 

"  It  is  not  a  diamond,  my  wife,"  was  the  quiet  reply. 

"Thou  art  sure?  " 

He  nodded.  "It  is  nol  for  nothing  that  Monsieur 
Bertrand,  the  lapidary  in  Rouen,  has  been  my  intimate 
friend.  It  is  so  palpable  an  imitation ;  but  they,  poor 
souls,  did  not  understand.     How  should  they?" 

There  was  a  pause;  then  Madame  Menoux  said 
shrewdly,  "  If,  then,  it  was  an  imitation,  it  was  not 
worth  three  hundred  francs  ?  " 

Her  husband  rose.  "Enfin!"  he  said.  "What 
matter?  It  will  not  hurt  us,  a  sum  like  that!" 

Madame  smiled  at  him  affectionately.  "That  is  true, 
mon  cher.    Thou  hast  done  well." 


CHAPTER    VI 


THE   LAST  DAY 


"Must  we  part? 
Well,  if  we  must — we  must — 
And  in  that  case, 
The  less  is  said  the  better." 

Sheridan. 

The  last  day  had  come,  as  last  days  must,  in  spite  of 
all  our  desire  to  postpone  them ;  in  spite  of  all  our  long- 
ing to  arrest  the  passage  of  time,  which  seems  to  fly  on 
wings  when  we  count  every  tick  of  the  clock,  and  know 
that  every  second  marks  the  approach  of  the  grey  shadow 
Parting. 

Babette  had  no  fear  with  regard  to  the  future,  so  sure 
was  she  in  her  own  mind  of  the  success  of  her  enterprise. 
After  all,  what  was  it  ? — only  a  few  weeks  or  months,  at 
most,  and  then  she  would  be  back  again.  Yet  it  was 
but  natural  that  her  heart  should  ache  at  the  thought 
that  those  few  weeks  must  be  spent  far  from  those  she 
loved.  If  Petite  M^re  could  have  come  to  England  with 
her  all  would  indeed  have  been  delightful,  but  that  was 
impossible,  she  must  go  alone.  The  money  for  a  double 
journey  was  not  forthcoming ;  already  their  slender 
resources  had  ben  strained  to  the  uttermost,  and  the  girl 
knew  that  the  most  rigid  economy  would  have  to  be 
practised  by  the  inmates  of  the  Pavilion  during  her 
absence. 

The  knowledge  distressed  her,  but  she  took  comfort 
from  the  certainty  that  it  would  not  be  for  long :  only 
until  she  returned  to  shower  the  fruits  of  her  newly 
acquired  wealth  on  Petite  M^re  and  Melanie,  who  would 
then  lack  nothing  that  loving  thought  could  suggest  for 
their  comfort  in  their  old  age. 

44 


THE   LAST   DAY  45 

Meanwhile,  on  this  the  last  day  before  the  great 
adventure  began,  Babette  gazed  at  each  well-known 
object  with  eyes  that  strove  to  fix  every  detail  firmly  in 
her  memory — tender  recollections  to  be  stored  up  against 
the  time  when  every  face  would  be  strange  and  every 
sight  unfamiliar. 

Early  dawn  had  found  her  standing  on  the  high 
ground  behind  the  house,  watching  the  sun  rise,  gazing 
across  the  wide  valley,  away  over  the  forest  of  Elboeuf, 
towards  Fecamp  and  the  sea — that  sea  which  she  must 
cross  to-morrow  to  seek  a  fortune  in  an  unknown  land. 

Already  the  great  brown  fields  about  her  were  show- 
ing touches  of  tender  green.  All  the  promise  of  spring 
was  in  the  air.  How  different  would  be  the  scene  which 
now  lay  before  her,  when,  a  few  months  later,  that  pro- 
mise should  be  fulfilled.  Babette  tried  to  picture  it.  Not 
a  house  would  be  visible  then,  where  now  the  brown 
roofs  of  the  homesteads  could  plainly  be  seen  through 
the  bare  branches  of  the  trees  which  surrounded  them — 
then  they  would  be  securely  hidden  and  sheltered  from 
wind  and  weather  by  the  thick  foliage. _  Brilliant  yellow 
patches  of  colza,  so  brilliant  as  to  be  almost  dazzling 
under  the  summer  sun,  would  stand  out  in  striking 
contrast  to  the  young  green  of  the  flax  and  the  varying 
tints  of  the  forest  trees.  There  would  be  long  lines  of 
tethered  cattle,  standing  knee-deep  in  the  rich  red  clover ; 
blue-clad  figures  would  be  at  work,  hoeing  or  digging, 
or  weeding  the  young  crops  with  a  gigantic,  curious 
implement  like  a  huge  pair  of  wooden  pincers.  Where 
all  was  now  hushed  and  expectant,  then  the  cheerful 
voices  of  the  busy  toilers  and  the  singing  of  birds  would 
resound  on  every  side. 

"Ah  !  "  she  thought,  "we  must  wait  till  the  summer 
here  is  over  :  it  is  too  beautiful  to  miss.  In  the  autumn 
when  the  earth  looks  sad  Petite  M^re  and  I  will  start  on 
our  journey  to  find  the  fairies." 

She  had  visited  the  little  thatched  cottage  in  the 
forest,  where  lived  old  Durot,  the  charcoal  burner.  The 
old  man  had  been  absent,  but  she  had  lingered  to  gather 
a  sprig  of  rosemary,  for  remembrance,  from  the  bush 


46  A  DREAM  OF  BLUE  ROSES 

that  grew  beside  his  door.  He  was  a  friend,  old  Durot — 
humble  old  fellow  as  he  was,  full  of  quaint  humour  and 
with  his  mind  a  veritable  storehouse  of  old-world  lore 
about  the  denizens  of  the  forest  where  he  made  his  home. 
She  was  sorry  to  go  without  bidding  him  good-bye ;  but 
never  mind,  before  the  great  clump  of  saxifrage  on  the 
mossy  roof  bloomed  in  all  its  golden  splendour  she 
would  be  back  again. 

She  walked  slowly  along  the  narrow  path  between  the 
tall  trees,  over  the  stile  and  across  the  meadow  until  the 
Pavilion  came  in  sight,  and  then,  once  more,  she  won- 
dered, as  so  often  before  on  this  same  spot,  who  had 
lived  in  it  in  days  gone  by.  There  was  no  doubt  that 
at  one  time  it  had  been  the  hunting-box  of  some  rich 
and  noble  seigneur  who  had  bestowed  much  thought 
and  not  a  little  money  on  its  adornment.  It  was  very 
old  now,  and  although  it  had  been  erected  in  the  days 
when  workmen  took  pride  in  their  craft  and  builded  for 
generations  to  come,  strongly  and  with  care,  it  was 
falling  into  disrepair. 

The  little  square  bell-tower  had  lost  some  of  its  slates, 
and  had  a  crooked,  even  dissipated,  appearance,  while 
the  lead  figures,  which  had  once  beautified  the  roof,  were 
broken  and  displaced. 

Cupid  still  stood  poised  in  the  act  of  flying  upon  one 
leaden  foot,  but  his  bow  was  missing;  while  Venus, 
who  for  so  many  years  had  smiled  at  him  from  the 
opposite  corner,  had  fallen  from  her  high  estate  and  now 
lay,  in  a  most  dejected  attitude,  on  a  small  rockery  in  a 
corner  of  the  garden,  with  a  kindly  growth  of  periwinkle 
draping  her  recumbent  form. 

The  glory  had  departed. 

If  only  the  little  house  could  speak,  what  tales  it  could 
tell  1  Tales  of  merry  parties  starting  off  to  the  chase — 
gay  cavaliers  on  prancing  steeds,  escorting  fair  ladies 
in  flowing  habits  and  tricorne  hats ;  tales  of  the  days 
when  the  silence  which  now  echoed  only  to  the  voice  of 
C16opatre,  had  rung  to  the  gay  tirra-lirra  of  the  horn. 

Even  now,  in  the  heart  of  the  forest,  game  was  plenti- 
ful, and  Babette  well  remembered  how,  on  looking  out 


THE   LAST  DAY  47 

of  her  window  very  early  one  frosty  morning  during 
their  first  winter  at  the  Pavilion,  she  had  seen  a  great 
wild  boar  crossing  the  meadow  just  beyond  the  little 
lawn — a  weird  spectral  monster  in  the  cold  haze. 

The  girl  had  peopled  the  quaint  place  with  dream 
folk,  had  visualized  for  herself  scenes  which  might  have 
been  enacted  in  the  past,  and  had  loved  its  atmosphere 
of  ancient  days  and  faded  grandeur. 

To-day  she  wandered  round  the  garden,  noting  the 
green  shoots  pushing  through  the  brown  earth  like 
venturesome  inquisitive  gnomes;  she  had  marked  the 
havoc  wrought  by  the  winter's  cold  on  one  or  two 
favourite  shrubs  and  sorrowed  over  it ;  she  had  spent  the 
day  in  bidding  all  farewell,  and  now  the  night  had 
come. 

Petite  M6re  had  placed  a  handful  of  dry  colza  twigs 
in  the  stove  in  the  salon,  and  then  seated  herself  in  her 
accustomed  chair  with  her  sewing,  and  Babette  had 
taken  her  usual  position  on  the  floor,  leaning  against 
the  older  woman's  knee. 

Now  and  then  the  sewing  would  fall,  and  a  gentle 
hand  would  stroke  the  brown  head  with'a  loving  caress. 
At  a  little  distance  Melanie  sat,  her  hands  folded  in  her 
lap,  half  asleep  and  half-awake,  after  her  day's  work. 

For  the  hundredth  time  that  day  Petite  M^re  asked 
anxiously,  ^'Thou  hast  everything,  Mignonne?  Thy 
clothes,  thy  books?  Hast  thou  forgotten  nothing — 
needles  and  thread,  perchance  ?  " 

"  I  have  everything,  Petite  M^re.     All  is  prepared." 

"Thou  hast  the  letters  in  a  secure  place?  " 

"Cherie,  nothing  is  forgotten." 

"Thou  wilt  W'rite  from  London  ?" 

"Surely,  without  delay." 

"I  cannot  well  remember  the  name  of  the  station  by 
which  thou  wilt  come  to  London.  It  is  a  great  city, 
greater  than  Rouen,  and  thou  wilt  wonder  at  the  great- 
ness of  it.  It  has  even  many  railway  stations,  so  many 
that  I  cannot  now  recall  the  names  of  them.  So  many 
things  thou  wilt  see  which  will  surprise  thee." 

"I  do  not  doubt  it,  Cherie  !  " 


48  A  DREAM  OF   BLUE   ROSES 

Presently  Melanie  roused  herself.  "Sing  to  us,  then, 
Petite,  once  more,"  she  said. 

"But  of  course  I  will  sing,"  answered  the  girl  quickly. 
"What  shall  it  be?" 

"Sing  the  '  Mon  ame  a  Dieu,'  "  replied  Melanie. 

Babette's  voice  was  quite  untrained,  but  she  sang 
naturally  and  sweetly  with  her  face  a  little  raised,  and 
the  clear  notes  came  liquid  and  true  as  a  bird's  song — 

"  '  La  voile  est  a  la  grande  hune,' 
Disait  un  Breton  a  genoux. 
'  Je  pars  pour  chercher  la  fortune 
Qui  ne  veut  pas  venir  k  nous. 
Je  reviendrai  bientot,  j'espere, 
Seche  tes  yeux  .  .  .  prie,  attends  moi. 
En  te  quittant,  ma  bonne  m^re, 
Mon  ime  k  Dieu,  mon  cceur  k  toi ! ' " 

and  again  the  last  line  repeated,  lingeringly,  softly — 

"  Mon  ame  k  Dieu  !  .  .  .  . 

..."  Mon  ame  a  Dieu,  mon  cceur  k  toi  ! " 

Her  voice  broke  on  the  last  words,  as  a  stifled  sob 
came  from  Petite  M^re.  Melanie  rose  suddenly  and 
hurried  from  the  room  as  if  she  could  bear  no  more,  and 
Babette  hid  her  face  and  burst  into  tears.  Petite  M^re 
laid  her  hand  gently  on  the  bowed  head,  and  strove  for 
words.  They  did  not  come  easily.  The  sorrow  of  age 
is  for  the  most  part  silent,  and  while  youth  can  find 
relief  in  words  and  tears,  age,  denied  that  relief,  suffers 
dumbly. 

At  last  she  said,  "A  sad,  sad  song  for  this  night,  ma 
bien  aim6e." 

"But  indeed,  indeed  it  will  not  be  for  long,"  the  girl's 
confidence  rang  out  bravely  through  her  tears.  "So 
soon  I  will  return,  Cherie,  almost  before  thou  knowest 
that  I  am  gone." 

"God  grant  it !  "  was  the  reply. 

Then  Petite  M^re  picked  up  her  sewing,  which  had 
fallen  to  the  floor,  and  laid  it  on  a  table  close  at  hand. 

"Thou  must  move  a  moment,  little  one,"  she  said. 
"I  have  something  to  show  thee." 


THE   LAST  DAY  49 

They  rose  and  walked  to  the  old  bureau,  which  Petite 
Mere  unlocked. 

"Oh,  Cherie  !  "  cried  Babette,  as  she  opened  it,  "here 
is  my  old  book  !  I  have  not  seen  it  for  so  long ;  I  had 
forgotten  all  about  it."  She  took  it  in  her  hand  as  she 
spoke,  and  turned  the  pages  thoughtfully. 

It  was  a  thin  volume  about  the  size  of  a  copybook, 
bound  in  faded  green  cloth,  with  the  word  "Journal" 
stamped  in  gold  letters  upon  the  cover,  and  it  had  been 
the  only  thing  in  any  way  resembling  a  plaything  which 
Babette  had  brought  with  her  to  Le  Petit  Andely. 

The  leaves  were  ruled  and  divided  into  spaces  for  days, 
and  the  first  few  pages  were  covered  with  a  childish 
straggling  handwriting. 

The  owner  had  seemingly  not  possessed  the  patience 
necessary  to  continue  the  entries,  for  the  writing  soon 
ceased,  and  the  rest  of  the  leaves  were  covered  with  a 
miscellaneous  collection  of  scraps  and  highly  coloured 
pictures,  pasted  in  quite  haphazard,  and  with  more 
decision  than  neatness. 

On  the  flyleaf  were  inscribed  the  words — 

"Mary  Verroll,  from  het  mother,  Jarfuary  i,  1877." 
and  underneath,  in  the  same  childish  hand  which  had 
filled  the  first  few  pages — 

"  Mama  has  promised  me  a  florin  if  I  keep  my  journal 
for  a  year." 

This  promise  Mama  had  evidently  never  been  called 
upon  to  fulfil.  Babette,  who  had  been  in  her  childhood 
more  interested  in  the  pictures  than  in  the  writing,  was 
reading  the  first  few  entries  with  attention. 

"Oh,  it  is  curious!"  she  exclaimed.  "Cherie,  my 
mother  also  went  to  London  !  " 

But  Petite  M^re  was  preoccupied,  and  made  no  reply, 
and  the  girl  continued  reading  to  herself — 

"January  2,  1877.  Went  with  Mama  to  Madame 
Tussaud's  to  see  the  wax  figures. 

"January  3.  Went  with  Mama  to  see  the  beasts 
in  Regent's  Park. — Cherie,  what  sort  of  beasts  &re 
there  in  Regent's  Park  ? "  asked  Babette  curiously. 

"Comment?"  inquired  Petite  M^re  absently. 


60  A  DREAM  OF  BLUE   ROSES 

"January  4.  Mama  took  me  to  see  the  church  where 
she  was  married.  Why  is  Papa  never  with  us  now  ? 
He  is  staying  so  long  in  Paris.  Mama  says  that  we 
shall  go  to  him  presently.  We  wished  so  much  that 
he  had  been  with  us  to-day.  The  church-  stands  in 
Smithfield,  close  to  the  spot  where  the  martyrs  were 
burnt  at  the  stake.  It  is  very  curious  and  ancient  and 
very  dark,  and  the  houses  all  round  it  are  very  old.  The 
man  in  charge  was  very  civiland  explained  a  great  deal 
to  us,  and  I  heard  the  blacksmith  working  in  the  church. 
I  saw  Mama's  name  in  the  big  book  where  they  write 
the  marriages.  Her  name  before  she  married  was 
Prudence  Eager,  and  she  married  Papa 

"Ah  I  voilk!"  said  Petite  M^re  suddenly.  "At 
last  I  find  what  I  have  sought.  See,  my  child, 
here  is  the  envelope  which  contains  all  the  papers  we 
received  with  thee.  The  certificates  of  the  marriage  of 
thy  parents,  John  Stewart  Vincent  and  Mary  Verroll, 
also  that  of  thy  baptism.  Here  is  the  address  of  the 
lawyers,  and  on  this  piece  of  paper  I  have  written  the 
date  of  thy  coming  to  us.  It  may  be  that  the  lawyers 
will  wish  to  see  these.  The  letters  of  Madame  Menoux 
and  Monsieur  le  Pasteur  thou  hast  already,  n'est-ce 
pas?" 

"I  have  them  safely.  Cherie,  may  I  not  also  take  the 
old  scrapbook  ?     I  think  I  would  like  to  take  it." 

"But  certainly;  is  it  not  thine?" 

Petite  Mhre  opened  a  small  drawer  and  took  from  it  a 
piece  of  folded  paper. 

"See,  I  have  something  to  show  thee,  Mignonne.  This 
that  thou  seest  here  is  money — English  money.  It  is  a 
note  for  five  pounds  sterling.  I  give  it  thee — I  will  that 
thou  take  it.  Thou  must  keep  it  very  safely,  but  always 
must  thou  understand  that  it  is  not  to  be  spent.  Dost 
thou  hear  ?  " 

"I  hear,  Petite  M^re,"  said  Babette  wonderingly. 
"But,  truly,  I  have  sufficient  money " 

"This  is  not  thy  money,"  Petite  M^re  spoke  earnestly, 
almost  sternly.  "I  give  it  thee  for  one  object  and  one 
alone — it  is  this  :  If  by  any  evil  chance,  which  the  good 


THE   LAST  DAY  51 

God  forbid,  thou  shouldst  find  misfortune — if  thy  fortune 
is  not  to  be  obtained,  or  if  thou  art  in  trouble,  this  money 
is  for  thy  return,  and  for  nothing  else.  It  is  not,  for 
example,  to  be  used  to  keep  thee  for  a  certain  time,  while 
awaiting  this  or  that — not  even  if  thou  art  certain  that 
the  waiting  will  be  short.  It  is  for  thy  ticket  and  the 
cost  of  thy  journey.  It  is  sufficient  to  bring  thee  from 
any  part  of  England  where  thou  mayst  find  thyself. 
Promise  me,  Mignonne,  that  for  no  other  purpose  shall 
this  note  be  changed,  so  shall  I  rest  quiet  in  the  know- 
ledge that  thou  art  secure — that  in  any  case  thou  hast 
the  means  to  return  to  thy  Petite  M^re.  Thou  wilt 
promise  ?  " 

"  Indeed,  indeed,  I  will  promise ;  rest  assured  that  the 
money  is  always  thine,  it  is  a  trust,  n'est-ce  pas?" 

"It  is  a  trust,"  repeated  the  old  woman  solemnly,  "for 
the  rest  it  is  to  the  good  God  that  I  commend  thee. 
Shall  He  Who  cherishes  the  little  birds  not  cherish  my 
little  loved  one  ?  Surely  !  Also,  thou  wilt  remember 
the  counsels  of  my  Joseph — so  thou  wilt  be  wise,  and  in 
God's  care,  secure.  But  go,  my  child,  sew  this  envelope 
safely  inside  thy  bodice — the  bodice  of  the  dress  thou 
wilt  wear  to-morrow,  so  shall  I  be  sure  that  all  is  well." 


E  2 


CHAPTER    VII 

THE   SAILING   OF  THE   ARGOSY 

"  Youth  !  Youth !  How  buoyant  are  thy  hopes, 
They  turn 
Like  marigolds  towards  the  sunny  side." 

Jean  Ingelow. 

The  first  stage  of  the  journey  was  over,  the  second 
just  commencing,  and  as  the  steady  throb,  throb  of  the 
engines  and  the  sound  of  rushing  water  fell  on  the  girl's 
ears,  she  realized  that  there,  with  the  land  that  was  fast 
disappearing  before  her  eyes,  she  left  also,  as  it  were, 
her  own  identity.  Babette,  Mignonne,  Little  Cabbage 
existed  no  longer,  and  in  her  place  stood  Barbara  Claudia 
Vincent,  Englishwoman  I 

The  Argosy  had  started,  the  great  adventure  had 
begun  !  and  with  the  exhilaration  of  the  sea,  and  the 
tang  of  the  fresh  salt  air  upon  her  face,  her  spirits  rose, 
in  spite  of  all ! 

Oh,  the  unbounded  confidence,  the  utter  fearlessness 
of  youth  !  a  priceless  possession  of  which  the  years  rob 
us  only  too  surely  as  they  pass,  and  what  do  they  give 
us  in  return  ?  Experience — saddest  of  time's  gifts ! 
Wisdom  ? — perhaps  a  little — and  caution  and  creeping 
fears. 

Barbara  Claudia  Vincent  gave  no  thought  to  the  toll 
of  the  passing  years  as  she  stood  leaning  against  the 
rail,  a  slight  figure  in  a  neat  grey  travelling  coat,  and 
a  small  black  hat  round  which  she  had  wound  a  veil  of 
grey  gauze.  The  veil  was  thrown  back  from  her  face, 
and  a  few  curls,  escaped  from  its  bondage,  were  blown 
this  way  and  that  by  the  ever-increasing  breeze.  Her 
grey  eyes  were  fixed  on  the  restless  water. 

The  sun  was  shining ;  but  a  few  clouds  overhead,  the 

52 


THE   SAILING   OF  THE  ARGOSY  53 

advance  guard  of  a  great  mass  in  the  horizon  seemed 
harbingers  of  coming  storm. 

Presently  voices  attracted  her  attention  :  so  far,  she 
liad  hardly  noticed  that  there  were  other  passengers  on 
board,  so  engrossed  had  she  been  in  her  own  thoughts. 
Two  girls  walked  past  her,  and  then  stopped  not  far 
from  where  she  stood.  Barbara  watched  them  with 
interest — they  were  English,  so  much  was  evident. 
Their  looks,  their  carriage,  and  above  all  their  clothes 
betrayed  their  nationality.  "I  hope  it  is  not  going 
to  be  rough,"  she  heard  one  of  them  say,  rather 
anxiously. 

"Oh,  no!"  answered  the  other  lightly,  "it's  simply 
ripping." 

"Ripping!"  repeated  Barbara  to  herself,  "what  is 
that,  then  ?  A  word  I  do  not  know,"  and  then  all  at 
once  it  struck  her  that  it  would  be  pleasant  to  know  girls 
like  these,  so  pretty  and  cheerful,  to  know  their  daily 
life,  and  be  friends  with  them.  Where  did  they  live? 
she  wondered,  and  what  were  their  interests  ?  Did  they 
go  to  balls  and  parties,  such  as  she  had  read  of?  How 
did  they  pass  their  time  ?  Did  they  wear  evening 
dresses,  cut  low  like  the  ladies  in  the  fashion  books  ? 
She  had  never  possessed  a  real  evening  dress.  It  must 
feel  strange.  She  had  always  understood  that  English 
girls  of  her  age  spent  much  time  in  games — games  which 
she  had  never  seen,  but  which  Petite  M^re  had  attempted 
to  describe.  From  her  description  they  sounded  rough 
and  not  very  amusing,  but  doubtless  that  was  not  so  in 
reality — truly  she  had  much  to  see  and  learn  ! 

Presently  an  elderly  lady,  presumably  their  mother, 
joined  them,  and  they  all  three  walked  away  together. 

The  sight  of  the  two  girls  afforded  her  food  for 
thought,  she,  who  in  all  her  life,  had  known  no  play- 
mates of  her  own  age.  In  this  new  life  which  was 
coming  she  would  make  new  friends — the  idea  was  de- 
lightful. Then,  quite  suddenly,  she  was  recalled  to  the 
present  in  a  moment  by  something  striking  her  full  in 
the  face.  It  proved  to  be  nothing  more  alarming  than 
a  sheet  of  newspaper  flying  in  the  wind,  but  for  a  second 


54  A  DREAM   OF   BLUE   ROSES 

she  was  startled.  Releasing  herself  hastily  from  its 
enveloping  folds,  she  looked  up  to  meet  the  eyes  of  a 
man  who  stood  before  her. 

"I  beg  you  ten  thousand  pardons,"  he  said,  rather 
gruffly,  "a  most  stupid  accident — the  wind  tore  it  from 
my  hand." 

"Do  not  mention  it.  Monsieur,"  she  said,  speaking 
instinctively  in  French.     "It  is  of  no  consequence." 

She  handed  him  his  paper  as  she  spoke,  and  he  raised 
his  cap  and  walked  away.  Barbara  glanced  at  his 
retreating  figure,  struggling  with  the  mirth  which 
bubbled  up  within  her.  "  What  an  absurdity  !  "  she 
thought.  "My  first  words  with  an  Englishman  after  an 
introduction  by  the  Petit  Journal!  I  must  really 
remember  to  speak  French  no  more !  I  am  English  ! 
English  !  English  !  He  is  not  good-looking,  no,  cer- 
tainly not,  but  he  has  kind  eyes,  also  he  is  rather  old — 
his  hair  is  turning  grey.  Truly  these  Englishmen  are 
solemn  !  I  have  always  heard  so.  Now  a  Frenchman 
would  have  laughed  outright  at  such  a  ridiculous 
episode,  but  not  so  ! — he  never  even  smiled  !  What  an 
extraordinary  coat  he  wears !  never  have  I  seen  one  cut 
in  such  a  curious  fashion,  with  so  many  seams  on  the 
shoulders !  but  he  walks  well — a  little  as  if  the  whole 
world  belonged  to  him  !  " 

When  a  couple  of  hours  later  she  descended  to  the 
saloon  in  search  of  a  cup  of  tea,  she  was  ushered  to  a 
seat,  and  found  herself  next  to  "the  newspaper  man," 
as  she  named  him  in  her  own  mind.  He  was  engaged 
in  a  political  discussion  with  his  neighbour,  and  Barbara 
listened  with  interest,  although  much  that  she  heard 
was  Greek  to  her.  Tariff  Reform  and  Imperial  Prefer- 
ence were  something  quite  unknown. 

"  He  is  still  solemn,"  she  thought,  with  amusement. 
The  friends  of  P^re  Joseph  when  discussing  the  affairs 
of  the  nation  had  been  wont  to  become  more  than  a  little 
excited,  and  to  make  considerable  use  of  gesture  by  way 
of  emphasizing  their  statements  and  impressing  their 
opinions  on  their  hearers,  but  not  so  these  Englishmen. 
Although  they  were  undoubtedly  arguing  from  different 


THE   SAILING  OF  THE  ARGOSY  55 

sides  of  the  question,  they  did  so  coolly  and  quietly,  and 
they  neither  raised  their  voices  nor  gesticulated. 

Barbara  gazed  longingly  at  the  sugar,  which  was 
reposing  just  out  of  her  reach,  and  wondered  if  she  could 
venture  to  ask  for  it.  She  had  just  decided  to  be 
courageous  when  the  newspaper  man  turned  towards  her. 

"  Will  you  give  me  the  sugar,  if  you  please  ?  "  she  said 
shyly. 

"I  beg  your  pardon,"  he  returned,  passing  it  as  he 
spoke.  Then  he  added,  "We  shall  be  in  in  good  time 
if  this  wind  continues." 

"It  is  blowing  strongly  now,"  she  said,  thanking  him. 

"This  is  a  good  boat;  I  have  crossed  in  her  before. 
Do  you  know  this  route  ?  "  he  asked  casually,  as  though 
he  felt  it  incumbent  on  him  to  make  some  polite 
conversation. 

"No,  it  is  the  first  time  I  travel.     It  is  new  to  me." 

"Your  first  visit  to  England?" 

"Yes,  my  first  visit."  Barbara  did  not  think  it  neces- 
sary to  explain  that  she  imagined  she  had  been  in  her 
native  country  in  childhood,  and  her  neighbour  could 
apparently  think  of  nothing  further  to  say,  so  they 
relapsed  into  a  silence  which  lasted  till  she  left  the  table. 

She  came  up  on  deck  to  find  that  the  sun  had  dis- 
appeared, and  a  cold  shower  of  rain  was  falling.  She 
selected  a  sheltered  corner  and  sat  down,  wondering  how 
soon  she  would  see  the  shores  of  England,  and  what 
Petite  M^re  was  doing  now.  Had  she  remembered  to 
feed  the  new  batch  of  chickens  which  had  hatched  out 
only  yesterday  ?  Had  Cleopatre  trotted  home  without 
one  of  her  evil  humours  ?  Poor  Petite  M^re  !  she  was 
not  fond  of  driving  Cleopatre !  But  now  she  would 
have  to  do  so,  since  Babette  was  no  longer  with  her, 
and  nothing  on  earth  would  have  induced  Melanie  to 
undertake  the  task.  Melanie  never  even  got  into  the 
little  cart,  if  she  could  possibly  avoid  it.  When  she  had 
found  her  fortune,  she  would  buy  a  pony,  a  docile 
animal,  who  would  not  be  prone  to  humours,  and  per- 
haps a  new  little  cart,  with  leather  cushions  and  bright- 
red  wheels,  like  one  she  had  seen  on  her  last  visit  to 


56  A  DREAM  OF  BLUE  ROSES 

Fecamp.  The  tears  welled  in  her  eyes  at  the  thought  of 
all  so  dear  and  so  familiar  that  she  left  behind,  and  she 
blinked  them  away,  and  turned  her  mind  resolutely  from 
the  past  to  the  future.  She  was  going  to  England  ! 
She  strained  her  eyes  into  the  cold  wet  haze,  and 
presently  she  was  rewarded  by  the  sight  of  high  cliffs 
under  a  lowering  leaden  sky.  Decidedly  her  country 
was  not  greeting  her  with  any  overwhelming  display 
of  welcome,  so  far  as  the  weather  was  concerned  ! 

At  last,  her  spirits  damped  by  the  dismal  outlook, 
she  took  her  place  in  the  line  of  passengers,  and  the 
process  of  disembarkation  began. 

A  civil  porter  took  charge  of  her,  found  her  luggage, 
and  finally  showed  her  to  a  seat  in  a  second-class 
carriage  reserved  for  the  use  of  ladies  only,  and  informed 
her  that  the  train  would  start  in  ten  minutes. 

She  felt  very  lost  and  lonely  as  she  stood  on  the  plat- 
form watching  the  busy  scene.  It  all  seemed  so  strange  : 
every  detail  was  so  different  to  everything  she  had  ever 
seen  before.  She  did  not  even  understand  the  words 
she  heard  spoken,  unless  they  chanced  to  be  very  clearly 
pronounced.  That  man  in  the  smart  uniform  over  there, 
with  the  silver  buttons  and  the  curious  helmet,  must  be 
a  policeman.  Petite  M^re  had  told  her  about  the  Eng- 
lish policeman,  and  how  she  could  always  appeal  to 
them  in  any  difficulty — they  were  always  polite  to 
foreigners.  And  Babette  had  laughingly  said  that  she 
was  no  foreigner  !  Now  she  felt  surprisingly  foreign 
and  strange  ! 

The  bookstall  with  its  display  of  papers  was  interest- 
ing, all  English  papers  !  She  would  have  liked  to  have 
bought  one,  but  feared  to  lose  her  seat  if  she  moved 
from  the  carriage  door. 

Presently  she  saw  "the  newspaper  man"  walk  up, 
throw  down  a  coin,  and  possess  himself  of  a  bundle 
of  literature,  then  he  turned  back  towards  the  train, 
passing  quite  close  to  her.  Possibly  something  in  the 
girl's  attitude  struck  him,  she  looked  young  to  be 
travelling  alone,  and  rather  forlorn,  for  he  hesitated,  and 
then  stopped. 


THE   SAILING   OF  THE   ARGOSY  57 

"Can  I  be  of  any  service?"  he  asked  shortly.  "Any 
information  you  want,  about  luggage  or  anything?" 

"I  shall  be  glad  to  know  if  this  train  goes  direct  to 
London,  or  will  it  be  necessary  for  me  to  change  ?  " 

"Oh,  no,  no  change  !  this  train  runs  straight  up.  You 
get  to  London,  Victoria,  that  is,  at  seven  o'clock.  You 
have  friends  in  London,  I  suppose ;  they  will  meet 
you  ?  " 

"No,"  she  said,  "I  have  not  friends  in  London,  but 
all  is  arranged,  thank  you."  And  then  feeling  instinct- 
ively that  his  inquiry  was  kindly  meant,  she  added,  "I 
am  not  at  all  nervous  travelling  alone,  although  this  is 
my  first " 

Alas  !  for  Petite  Mare's  boast !  Alas  !  for  Barbara's 
thorough  knowledge  of  the  English  language !  She 
stammered,  hesitated,  failed  to  find  the  word  she 
needed,  and  then  changed  the  phrasing  of  her  sentence. 
Looking  at  him  with  frank  grey  eyes,  "I  am  an 
adventuress  !  "  she  said. 

Then  a  warning  whistle  sounded,  an  official  stepped 
forward,  the  train  was  on  the  point  of  starting.  As  she 
sprang  into  her  seat  the  man  hurried  off  to  his  own 
compartment,  without  vouchsafing  any  reply  to  this 
astounding  statement ! 

Barbara  watched  the  flying  landscape  until  the  gather- 
ing dusk  hid  it  from  view.  It  was  quite  dark  when  she 
reached  London,  and  her  first  impression  of  the 
Metropolis  was  a  confusion  of  bright  lights  and  a  Babel 
of  strange  sounds.  She  longed  for  daylight,  that  she 
might  see  her  land  of  promise  as  it  really  was,  but  to- 
night all  was  indistinct,  blurred  by  the  darkness  and  the 
rain. 

The  Bourbon  Hotel,  situated  in  an  obscure  street  in 
Pimlico,  was  doubtless,  as  Madame  Menoux  had  said, 
most  respectable,  but  it  was  certainly  more  than  a  little 
dingy. 

The  wife  of  the  proprietor  proved  to  be  a  kind,  if 
somewhat  voluble  Frenchwoman,  who  was  only  too 
delighted  to  welcome  a  visitor  from  her  own  country. 
She  was  evidently  very  proud  of  her  establishment,  and 


58  A  DREAM  OF  BLUE  ROSES 

insisted  on  showing  Barbara  all  the  glories  of  the  public 
rooms,  which  appeared  intolerably  stuffy  and  heavy  with 
lack  of  air  and  the  odours  of  food,  past  and  present. 
Finally,  she  conducted  her  to  a  small  bedroom  on  the 
third  floor,  explaining,  as  she  flung  open  the  door,  that 
she  had  many  other  and  more  luxurious  apartments,  but 
that  Mademoiselle  had  expressly  stated  that  she  desired 
something  not  too  expensive,  to  which  Barbara  readily 
assented.  In  reply  to  the  good  woman's  offer  of  food, 
she  asked  for  a  cup  of  soup,  saying  that  having  been 
travelling  all  day  she  was  fatigued,  and  would  prefer 
to  go  to  bed  very  soon. 

Once  alone,  she  sat  down  on  the  edge  of  the  bed  and 
surveyed  her  surroundings.  A  faded  drab  paper,  with 
an  almost  obliterated  design,  covered  the  walls — two 
chairs,  a  small  painted  chest  of  drawers  on  which  stood 
a  looking-glass,  a  washstand  and  the  bed  completed  the 
furniture.  There  was  a  worn  carpet  on  the  floor,  and 
before  the  window  hung  two  stiff  lace  curtains,  which 
had  presumably  once  been  white.  The  blind  was  down, 
all  was  clearly  revealed  in  undisguised  cheerlessness  by 
the  light  of  one  flaring  gas  jet,  innocent  of  globe  or 
shade.  She  walked  to  the  window,  but  could  distinguish 
nothing  in  the  darkness. 

The  cup  of  soup  revived  her  considerably,  and  while 
she  unpacked  a  few  necessaries,  she  considered  her  plan 
of  campaign  for  the  morrow.  She  decided  that  eleven 
o'clock  would  be  the  most  suitable  time  for  the  lawyers. 
The  address  with  her  precious  papers  was  safe  in  its 
hiding-place,  and  she  drew  it  out  and  consulted  it. 

"Messrs.  Bolt  and  Lawrence, 
"240  Lincoln's  Inn  Fields  J* 

Was  that  far  off  ?  She  could  not  tell.  It  would  be  best, 
however,  to  take  a  cab.  She  would  start  at  about  half- 
past  ten,  that  would  allow  her  plenty  of  time. 

Should  she  write  to  Petite  M^re  ?  No,  not  to-night. 
She  would  do  that  in  the  morning  and  post  it  on  her 
way  out.      Poor   little   Petite   M^re,   and   Melanie,   all 


THE   SAILING  OF  THE  ARGOSY  59 

alone,   thinking  of  her,  as  she  thought  of  them,  with 
longing. 

After  she  had  been  to  the  lawyers  she  would  go  and 
see  the  shops,  and  find  some  presents  to  send  them, 
something  beautiful,  but  at  the  same  time  useful.  She 
would  like  to  get  a  coat  for  Petite  M^re,  a  warm,  com- 
fortable coat,  with,  if  possible,  a  fur  collar.  Petite 
Mare's  old  one  was  almost  threadbare,  and  she  would 
be  so  delighted  to  have  a  new  one.  And  what  for 
Melanie  ?  That  was  a  more  difficult  matter,  since 
Melanie  seldom  went  beyond  the  garden,  and  was  not 
given  to  self-adornment.  But  doubtless  there  would  be 
many  lovely  things,  and  when  it  carne  to  the  point,  the 
choice  would  not  be  difficult. 

After  she  got  into  bed  she  lay  awake  for  some  time 
listening  to  the  strange  sounds  in  the  street,  moving 
restlessly  from  side  to  side,  acutely  conscious  of  the 
lumps  in  the  mattress,  which  felt  as  though  it  were  filled 
with  potatoes,  or  even  with  stones  !  She  missed  the  soft 
feathers  to  which  she  was  accustomed,  and,  above  all, 
she  missed  the  tender  "Good-night" — the  kind  minis- 
trations which  had  been  hers  from  childhood. 

But  at  last  sleep  came — the  sound,  untroubled  sleep 
of  healthy  girlhood. 

So  ended  the  first  day  of  the  great  adventure. 


CHAPTER    VIII 


BLUE  ROSES 


"  Experience  teaches  slowly,  and  at  the  cost  of  mistakes." 

Froude. 

The  next  morning  Barbara  awoke  with  a  start.  She 
gazed  round  her  in  surprise.  What  catastrophe  had 
stripped  her  room  of  its  pretty  wallpaper  with  its  bunched 
pink  roses,  and  left  it  drab  and  bare  ?  What  could  be 
the  reason  of  that  terrible  noise,  like  the  continuous  roll 
of  thunder,  accompanied  by  the  tramp  of  myriad  feet? 

And  then  suddenly  she  remembered  that  this  was 
London  !  She  sprang  out  of  bed  and  ran  barefoot  to 
the  window.  Her  hasty  pull  at  the  blind  brought  it 
tumbling  on  to  her  head,  and  many  efforts  were  required 
before  she  succeeded  in  opening  the  window,  which  was 
as  stiff  as  though  it  had  not  been  raised  for  months ;  and 
indeed,  from  the  atmosphere  of  the  room,  she  thought 
it  probable  that  this  was  actually  the  case.  A  breath  of 
welcome  air  brought  in  with  it  such  a  whirl  of  smuts 
and  dust  that  for  a  second  she  drew  back  in  dismay. 
What  a  dirty  place  !  They  were  then  not  over-careful 
as  to  cleanliness,  these  people  of  London  ! 

She  peeped  out,  keenly  anxious  for  her  first  sight  of 
the  great  city,  but  drew  back,  disappointed.  The  view- 
was  not  extensive — just  a  straight  brown  wall  and  above 
it  a  series  of  roofs,  surmounted  by  regiments  of  chimney- 
pots of  every  shape  and  size. 

Small  wonder  there  were  smuts  !  In  the  gutter  of  the 
nearest  roof  a  couple  of  sparrows  were  fighting  over  a 
straw,  arguing  and  chattering  in  their  struggle  for 
victory.  A  little  ripple  of  laughter  broke  from  the  girl's 
lips,  the  anger  of  the  tiny  birds  seemed  so  utterly  out 
of  proportion  to  their  size.     They  were  the  only  sign 

60 


BLUE   ROSES  61 

of  life.  Overhead  a  faint  yellow  glow  seemed  to 
indicate  that  the  sun  was  not  far  off,  and  that  it  was 
making  a  gallant  attempt  to  pierce  the  grey  smoky 
pall  which  shrouded  everything.  Not  a  scrap  of  blue 
sky  was  to  be  seen,  not  at  any  rate  as  far  as  she  could 
see,  but  that  in  truth  was  not  very  far.  All  was  drab 
and  grey  and  dingy. 

"No  trees!"  she  mused,  "nothing  but  roofs  and 
chimney-pots ;  it  seems  droll,  but  perhaps  in  the  quarter 
where  the  lawyers  live  it  will  be  otherwise.  Lincoln's 
Inn  Fields  sounds  like  the  country.  I  should  have 
supposed  that  for  convenience  in  their  business  they 
would  live  in  a  central  part  of  the  city." 

After  some  reflection  she  decided  to  put  on  her  best 
coat  and  skirt.  It  was  new,  and  it  seemed  almost  a  sin 
to  expose  it  to  the  dust  and  dirt,  but,  on  the  other  hand, 
the  enormous  importance  of  the  coming  interview 
demanded  suitable  attire.  As  for  her  hat,  why  the  one 
she  had  travelled  in  must  serve.  Her  best  one  was 
trimmed  with  a;  white  feather,  and  she  ruefully  realized 
that  one  day  in  this  atmosphere  would  prove  its  ruin. 
No,  the  feather  should  be  reserved  for  her  visit  to  Mrs. 
Arkwright,  perhaps  even  for  her  introduction  to  pretty 
English  girls  like  those  she  had  seen  on  the  boat 
yesterday. 

This  momentous  question  once  settled,  she  dressed 
herself  hastily.  Taking  the  precious  papers  from 
beneath  the  pillow  where  she  had  placed  them  the  night 
before,  she  stowed  them'  carefully  in  the  same  place  as 
yesterday — inside  her  bodice.  To  no  handbag  or  pocket 
would  she  entrust  them.  And  then,  her  preparations 
concluded,  she  sat  down  to  write  her  promised  letter 
home. 

It  was  not  very  long,  but  it  was  loving  and  hopeful. 
Up  to  the  present  she  had  met  with  no  difficulties — all 
had  gone  well.  She  wrote  of  the  journey  and  the 
strangeness  of  it.  She  could  at  present  say  little  of 
London,  but  her  next  letters  should  fully  describe  its 
wonders.  She  sent  a  caress  to  Cl^opatre  and  Paul  and 
Virginie,  and  affectionate  messages  to  kind  old  Melanie, 


62  A  DREAM   OF   BLUE   ROSES 

and  all  the  love  of  her  heart  to  Petite  M^re.  This  done 
she  descended  in  search  of  coffee.       $ 

An  hour  later  a  servant  announced  that  the  carriage 
Mademoiselle  had  commanded  awaited  her.  It  proved 
to  be  a  dilapidated  four-wheeler  with  a  most  dejected 
horse.  After  having  given  the  address  to  the  driver, 
Barbara  gathered  up  her  skirts  and  stepped  inside.  This 
was  decidedly  out  of  keeping  with  the  occasion,  she 
thought,  but  alas  !  she  had  no  fairy  godmother  to  wave 
a:  magic  wand  and  summon  a  splendid  equipage  like 
that  of  Cinderella  in  the  nursery  tale,  so  she  must  per- 
force do  without.  Small  matter,  after  all,  so  that  she 
reached  her  destination  I 

She  tried  to  prepare  herself — to  rehearse  the  speech 
by  which  she  would  introduce  herself,  to  imagine  the 
lawyer's  reply,  and  so  on.  She  raised  her  hand  from 
time  to  time  to  assure  herself  of  the  safety  of  her  papers, 
proof  of  her  identity  would  surely  be  necessary.  Alto- 
gether her  thoughts  were  so  engrossing  that  she  saw 
little  of  the  streets  through  which  she  passed,  and  was 
quite  surprised  when  the  cab  drew  up  with  a  jerk. 
Not  in  the  country,  by  any  means,  but  still  there  were 
some  trees. 

She  got  out  and  questioned  the  driver.  Was  he  sure 
that  this  was  Lincoln's  Inn  Fields?  "Oh  yes,  that  was 
it  right  enough.  There  it  was  written  up  at  the  corner. 
The  lady  could  see  for  herself.  There  was  No.  240  on 
the  door."    So  she  paid  him,  and  he  drove  away. 

She  walked  up  a  few  steps  into  a  little  entry  where 
names  printed  on  a  board  indicated  the  different  firms 
whose  offices  were  located  within.  She  scanned  it 
eagerly,  once — twice. 

Bolt — there  was  no  such  name.  But  Lawrence — ah, 
there  was  Lawrence ;  Lawrence  and  Green,  second  floor. 
But  Bolt  and  Lawrence  were  the  people  she  sought ! 
Never  mind,  she  would  inquire.  Mounting  to  the  second 
floor  she  found  a  door  marked  "Messrs.  Lawrence  and 
Green,  solicitors."  Just  as  she  was  in  the  act  of  ringing 
the  bell  the  door  opened,  and  a  boy  emerged. 

"Messrs.  Lawrence,"  she  began. 


.      BLUE   ROSES  63 

"Inquiries  first  door  on  the  left,"  he  called  hurriedly 
as  he  passed,  and  with  that  he  was  gone,  swinging 
down  the  stairs  two  steps  at  a  time. 

Barbara  gathered  up  her  courage,  which  seemed  to 
be  most  unaccountably  failing  her,  and  knocked  at  the 
door  he  had  indicated. 

A  man,  evidently  a  clerk,  appeared,  and  she 
explained  her  errand. 

"  Perhaps  you  had  .better  speak  to  Mr.  Lawrence," 
he  answered  civilly.  "If  you  will  take  a  seat  I  will 
inquire  if  he  can  see  you.     What  name,  please?" 

Barbara  sat  down,  and  in  a  few  moments  he  returned. 

"Will  you  step  this  way,  please?"  he  said,  and 
almost  immediately  she  found  herself  entering  a  long 
narrow  room.  At  a  table  under  the  window  at  the  far 
end  sat  a  man,  who  rose  as  she  approached.  He  was 
small  and  bowed,  with  white  hair,  and  he  wore 
spectacles. 

"Good-morning,"  he  said.  "You  wished  to  see  me? 
Please  be  seated." 

Barbara  took  the  chair  beside  the  writing-table,  and 
he  resumed  his  seat. 

"I  have  called  to  see  Messrs.  Bolt  and  Lawrence," 
she  began.  "They  have — I  think — information  for 
me." 

"I  am  Mr.  Lawrence,"  he  replied.  "The  name  of 
the  firm  has  been  changed  for  many  years.  What  was 
the  nature  of  the  information  you  desired  ?  " 

Barbara  hesitated.  She  found  the  question  rather 
hard  to  answer.  "My  name  is  Vincent — Barbara 
Claudia  Vincent.  My  father  was  John  Stewart  Vincent. 
Perhaps  you  remember  his  name  ?  " 

"Vincent!  "  he  repeated  thoughtfully;  then  he  shook 
his  head.     "No,  we  have  no  client  of  that  name." 

"It  was  understood  that  should  any  difficulty  arise 
Messrs.  Bolt  and  Lawrence  were  to  be  communicated 
with.     I  am  now  one-and-twenty." 

Mr.  Lawrence  looked  at  her  carefully,  and  then, 
taking  off  his  spectacles,  he  polished  them  carefully 
with  his  pocket  handkerchief. 


64  A  DREAM   OF  BLUE  ROSES 

"I  am  afraid  I  am  quite  at  a  loss,"  he  said.  "Will 
you  tell  me  a  little  more  ?  " 

And  then,  in  halting  phrases,  Barbara  told  her  story. 
It  did  not  take  long,  for  when  it  came  to  the  telling 
there  was  painfully  little  to  say. 

"Now,"  said  the  lawyer,  when  she  had  finished,  "let 
me  just  see  that  I  understand  you  rightly.  You  were 
left  when  a  child  of  seven  with  guardians.  Your 
father's  name  was  John  Stewart  Vincent." 

"Yes,"  cried  Barbara  eagerly,  "I  can  prove  it,"  and 
as  she  spoke  she  raised  her  hand  to  draw  out  the 
papers. 

"I  do  not  doubt  that  for  a  moment.  Never  mind  it 
for  the  present.  Your  guardians  were  informed  that  in 
any  difficulty  they  were  to  write  to  us  ?  " 

"To  Messrs.  Bolt  and  Lawrence." 

"That  was  the  old  firm.  Mr.  Bolt  has  been  dead  for 
three  years.  And  you  say  that  it  was  understood  that 
at  the  age  of  twenty-one  there  would  be  a  fortune  await- 
ing you  ?  During  all  these  years  they  have  never 
written.     How  was  that?" 

"There  was  no  necessity.     The  money  was  paid." 

"What  money?" 

"The  money  for  my  maintenance." 

"And  now?" 

"It  has  ceased.  For  two  years  it  has  not  come,  and 
so,  instead  of  writing " 

"You  came  yourself?"  He  nodded  kindly.  "But 
I  am  sorry  to  tell  you  that  we  know  nothing  of  your 
affairs  whatever." 

Barbara  lifted  ai  white  face  and  moistened  her  dry 
lips.  A  great  dread  was  slowly  but  surely  arising  in 
her  mind.  She  fought  it  with  all  her  might ;  surely 
the  firm  must  know  all  about  her.  Perhaps  it  was  only 
that  this  old  gentleman  did  not  remember. 

"Perhaps     you     have     forgotten "     she     began 

desperately. 

"No,  I  am  afraid  not." 

He  rose,  and,  crossinp^  to  the  fireplace,  he  rang  a 
bell.    The  clerk  appeared  in  answer  to  his  summons. 


BLUE   ROSES  65 

"Jervis,  have  the  name  Vincent  looked  up.  It  may 
be  fifteen  or  twenty  years  ago." 

Then  he  turned  again  to  the  girl.  "I  have  too  good 
a  memory  to  have  forgotten,  I  fear.  Now  tell  me, 
what  more  do  you  know  about  your  father  ?  " 

"Nothing,"  she  faltered. 

"From  whom  did  your  guardians  receive  you?" 

"From  my  guardian's  brother,  Monsieur  Georges 
Maurice,  an  advocate  in  Paris.  My  guardians  always 
understood  that  it  was  my  father  who  had  instructed 
Monsieur  Georges  to  place  me  in  their  charge." 

"But  you  do  not  know  for  certain?  It  might  have 
been  your  uncle  or  your  grandfather." 

"I  am  sure  Monsieur  Georges  Maurice  said  it  was 
my  father." 

"  Why  do  you  not  ask  him  ?  " 

"He  is  dead." 

"You  have  absolutely  no  papers?  .  .  ." 

"Yes,  yes,"  she  cried.  "I  have  papers.  I  have  that 
of  my  baptism  and " 

The  lawyer  held  up  his  hand.  "I  mean  that  you 
have  absolutely  no  papers  relating  to  any  sum  of  money 
to  which  you  are  entitled  at  the  age  of  twenty-one  ?  " 

"No." 

"You  do  not  know  whether  your  father  is  still 
alive?" 

"No." 

"Or  whether  he  ever  possessed  money?" 

"He  must  have  possessed  money,"  said  Barbara 
shrewdly,  "since  he  sent  us  some  every  year." 

"But  you  have  no  proof  that  it  was  he  who  sent  it — 
it  might  well  have  been  some  one  else.  Do  you  know 
of  any  living  relative  at  the  moment  ?  " 

"No." 

There  was  a  long  pause — a  silence  which  Barbara 
was  unable  to  break.  Somewhere  in  her  brain  a  little 
pulse  was  throbbing  with  maddening  regularity.  It 
reminded  her  of  the  screw  yesterday.  Bump,  bump, 
bumpity,  bump.  The  lawyer  sat  diligently  polishing 
his  spectacles. 


66  A   DREAM   OF   BLUE   ROSES 

"What  made  you  decide  to  come?"  he  asked  at  last. 

"Monsieur  Maurice,  my  guardian,  died  a  few  years 
ago.  His  widow  is  very  poor — the  money  was  not  paid. 
Also  I  was  twenty-one,  and  there  was  this  matter  of  my 
fortune,"  she  said  simply. 

"Which  you  expected  to  find  here?"  asked  Mr. 
Lawrence  dryly. 

Barbara  did  not  answer. 

At  last  the  clerk  returned,  but  Barbara  never  heard 
his  report.  She  seemed  to  have  known  for  ages  what 
it  must  be. 

"You  see,"  Mr.  Lawrence's  voice  reached  her  as  if 
from  a  great  distance,  "I  was  right.  I  rather  pride 
myself  on  my  excellent  memory.  I  knew  that  during 
my  connection  with  the  firm,  and  it  is  a  long  one,  we 
have  had  no  client  of  the  name  of  Vincent.  It  is 
possible,  of  course,  that  your  father  was  a  personal 
friend  of  Mr.  Bolt.  That  I  cannot  say.  Now,  the 
question  remains,  what  are  you  going  to  do?  Your 
case  is  briefly  this  :  you  know  your  father's  name  and 
nothing  else.  You  do  not  even  know  where  he  resided. 
We  are  at  your  service,  of  course,  should  you  desire 
to  institute  inquiries,  but — "  he  hesitated,  "I  must  tell 
you  that  it  would  be  a  matter  involving  considerable 
expenditure.  You  could,  of  course,  instruct  a  firm  who 
make  a  business  of  such  investigations." 

"  It  would  be  a  matter  of  much  money  ?  " 

"It  would  be  a  matter  of  considerable  expense,"  he 
repeated.  "Of  course  I  do  not  know  what  means  you 
have  at  your  disposal,  but  from  what  you  have  told  me, 
I  gather  that  they  are  limited.  If,  however,  you  are 
in  a  position  to  spend,  say,  a  few  hundred  pounds  in 
tracing  a  man  whose  whereabouts  are  quite  unknown, 
well  and  good.  But  I  cannot  advise  you  to  do  so 
unless  you  have  the  money  to  play  with.  You  do  not 
know  whether  your  father  is  alive.  One  might  almost 
be  safe  in  presuming  that  he  is  dead,  for  if  alive,  you 
would  surely  have  heard  of  him,  or  at  any  rate  the 
allowance  would  have  been  paid  as  usual.  Nor  have 
you  any  proof  that  there  is  money  awaiting  you.     You 


BLUE   ROSES  67 

risk  what  you  have  in  order  to  seek  a  fortune  which  is 
more  than  likely  non-existent.  I  don't  say  you  will 
not  find  many  people  willing  to  undertake  the  search 
and  more  than  willing  to  take  your  money,  but  my 
advice  to  you  is,  keep  it  in  your  pocket,  my  dear  young 
lady,  and  return  to  your  guardian." 

He  stood  up  and  held  out  his  hand,  as  if  to  intimate 
that  the  interview  was  over;  he  could  do  no  more. 

Mechanically  Barbara  thanked  him,  and  then,  hold- 
ing her  head  very  high,  walked  out  of  the  room.  A 
sense  of  dizziness  was  coming  over  her,  and  with  it  a 
longing  to  escape. 

She  ran  down  the  stairs  at  a  pace  which  would  have 
humbled  the  heart  of  the  office  boy,  had  he  been  there 
to  see,  for  up  to  the  present  he  prided  himself  on  hold- 
ing the  record  for  speed,  and  she  was  just  flying  out  of 
the  door  when  she  encountered  a  lady  on  the  point  of 
entering. 

Why  is  it  that  when  two  people  meet,  and  are  each 
only  too  anxious  to  stand  aside  and  allaw  the  other  to 
pass,  that  they  both  invariably  step  in  the  same  direc- 
tion ?  I  cannot  tell,  but  it  often  happens,  as  it  did  on 
this  occasion,  that  you  dance  a  sort  of  reluctant  chasse 
croise  with  an  equally  reluctant  partner. 

During  the  few  seconds  occupied  in  this  perform- 
ance a  vision  of  blue  roses  swam  before  Barbara's  eyes. 
The  whole  world  seemed  full  of  them.  In  truth  they 
were  but  a  huge  bunch  which  adorned  the  lady's  hat, 
but  as  Barbara  was  standing  on  a  higher  step  they  were 
exactly  in  her  line  of  sight.  Her  face  had  been  white 
and  strained,  but  now  a  vivid  flush  rose  and  stained  it 
from  throat  to  temples.  Blue  Roses!  Again  she  heard 
P^re  Joseph's  familiar  voice — 

"  It  is  vain  to  seek  blue  roses,  my  child.  They  grow 
not  in  this  world  of  ours." 

And  Barbara  fled  from  the  sight  of  them. 

Her  one  conscious  feeling  was  shame — shame  that 
she  should  have  been  such  a  fool,  such  an  imbecile,  als 
to  embark  on  such  a  venture  without  evidence,  without 
reliable   information  !     To  imagine   that  fortunes  were 

F  2 


68  A  DREAM   OF   BLUE   ROSES 

to  be  had  for  the  asking,  and  not  to  have  realized  that 
the  whole  expedition  was  nothing  more  or  less  than 
preposterous  folly.  Ignorant,  credulous  fool  that  she 
had  been  ! 

Surely  she,  with  all  P^re  Joseph's  training  and 
wisdom  to  guide  her,   ought  to  have  known  better. 

It  was  all  very  well  for  Petite  M^re  in  her  gentle 
simplicity,  her  sweet  unworldliness,  to  suppose  that  her 
child  must  necessarily  be  successful  in  anything  that 
she  undertook.  Petite  M^re,  who  believed  so  implicitly 
in  mankind  and  the  worth  of  their  intentions.  But  she 
herself  should  have  known  better. 

By  good  luck  the  lawyer  had  been  kind.  He  had 
refrained  from  telling  her  in  so  many  words  that  she 
was  the  fool  he  must  have  thought  her. 

Her  fortune  !  Again  the  red  surged  into  her  face  at 
the  recollection  of  his  question.  "Which  you  expected 
to  find  here  ?  " 

She  asked  herself  fiercely:  "What  was  it,  then,  that 
I  expected  ?  "  Often  in  days  to  come  she  asked  herself 
the  same  question.  Was  the  lawyer  to  produce  a  sack 
of  gold  and  hand  it  to  her  with  a  bow,  saying:  "Miss 
Vincent,  your  fortune,  if  you  please  !  "  She  really  did 
not  know,  she  had  never  pictured  anything  in  detail ; 
she  had  merely  come  to  find  the  fortune,  which,  in  the 
words  of  her  song,  "would  not  come  to  her." 

She  could  hardly  have  blamed  the  man  if  he  had 
laughed  outright,  but  he  had  been  kind — far  kinder 
than  she  had  deserved.  He  had  made  it  quite  clear  to 
her  that  her  expectations  were  vain  and  absurd.  There 
was  no  fortune,  that  was  the  end  of  it.  Not  for  one 
second  did  she  contemplate  any  search  for  her  father : 
in  the  first  place  she  had  no  money  to  spend  on  it,  and 
in  the  second  she  was  not  sure  that  she  had  any  wish 
to  find  a  parent  whom  she  did  not  know — who  was 
merely  a  name  to  her.  It  was  the  money  she  desired 
and  the  happiness  it  would  have  brought  to  Petite 
Mfere. 

On  one  thing  she  was  determined  :  she  would  never 
speak  of  her  fortune  again ;  she  would  never  mention 


BLUE   ROSES  69 

it — she  would  try  not  even  to  think  of  it;  she  would 
bury  the  thought  here  and  now,  and  raise  over  it  a 
monument  to  the  memory  of  a  colossal  mistake  as  a 
warning  against  vain  longings  in  the  future. 

Then  Mr.  Lawrence's  last  words  returned  to  her 
mind :  "  My  advice  is  to  keep  your  money  in  your 
pocket,  and  return  to  your  guardian,"  and  Barbara  fell 
with  a  gasp  from  the  region  of  fancy  on  to  the  hard 
rock  of  solid  fact. 

The  first  half  of  the  injunction  might  be  difficult  to 
follow :  the  second  was  impossible.  Return  to  Petite 
M^re  with  empty  hands,  and,  by  the  same  token,  an 
empty  pocket,  she  could  not.  What  was  she  going  to 
do  ?  She  summoned  all  her  common-sense  to  meet  the 
situation. 

She  now  became  aware  that  in  her  agitation  she  had 
been  walking  rapidly,  whether  for  five  minutes  or  an 
hour  she  could  not  say,  round  and  round  the  great 
square  of  Lincoln's  Inn  Fields.  Seeing  a  vacant  seat, 
she  sat  down  and  looked  about  her.  There  were  not 
many  people  about  at  this  hour,  the  place  was  almost 
deserted. 

A  little  way  off,  under  a  great  plane-tree,  a  man  was 
feeding  the  pigeons,  and  they  crowded  to  him,  waddling 
with  clumsy  haste  over  the  short  grass,  or  soaring  in 
short  graceful  flights — pigeons  of  all  colours,  fawn, 
French  grey,  and  blue,  with  the  light  playing  here  and 
there  upon  the  wonderful  iridescence  of  their  neck 
feathers.  Round  them  hopped  the  mendicant  sparrows, 
greedily  seeking  for  their  share  of  the  feast.  Their 
twittering  filled  the  air,  while  in  the  distance  the  hum 
of  the  busy  streets  rose  and  fell  in  a  deep  arpeggio. 

Overhead  the  sun  was  still  valiantly  attempting  to 
pierce  the  grey  haze,  and  a  few  faint  beams  lit  up  the 
dark  stems  of  the  trees  and  played  among  the  budding 
branches. 

It  was  very  peaceful,  this  oasis  in  the  heart  of  a  great 
city.  Barbara's  agitation  faded  after  a  time,  and  she 
was  able  to  form  her  plans.  Calmly  and  methodically 
she  decided  on  her  course  of  action.     She  would  seek 


70  A   DREAM   OF   BLUE   ROSES 

employment  at  once.  She  would  consult  her  landlady 
as  to  the  best  method  of  obtaining  it.  There  was  no 
doubt  some  bureau  where  she  could  go,  and  where  she 
would  hear  of  a  suitable  situation.  It  would  be  best  to 
apply  for  a  post  as  teacher,  and  with  her  knowledge 
of  French  it  would  not  be  hard  to  find.  Had  not 
Petite  M^re  said  that  French  was  always  in  demand  ? 
If  necessary  she  could  insert  an  advertisement  in  a 
newspaper.  It  was  true  that  she  had  no  previous 
experience,  but,  after  all,  every  one  must  make  a 
beginning.  She  could  commence  with  very  young 
children  who  would  only  require  elementary  instruc- 
tion.   She  could  well  undertake  that. 

This  decision  once  arrived  at,  the  outlook  seemed 
brighter.  She  was  young  and  strong  and  willing;  what 
better  qualifications  could  she  have  ? 

She  rose  from  her  seat  after  a  while,  and  by  the  aid 
of  a  friendly  policeman  found  an  omnibus  which  enabled 
her  to  reach  her  hotel  without  difficulty.  It  was  only 
when  she  gained  her  own  room  that  her  courage  gave 
way  a  little.  Was  it  possible,  she  thought,  as  she 
looked  round  its  cheerless  grimy  walls,  that  everything 
had  altered  so  absolutely  during  the  space  of  a  few 
short  hours?  Was  she  indeed  the  same  girl  who  had 
started  out  that  same  morning  on  such  a  wild  goose 
chase  ?  Then  she  had  been  Barbara  Claudia  Vincent, 
going  with  her  heart  beating  high  with  hope  to  receive 
the  fortune  which  was  to  ensure  so  much  happiness,  and 
gild  all  the  future  with  the  brightest  gold ;  but  now  she 
was  just  little  Babette,  a  desolate,  lonely  child,  far 
away  from  those  who  loved  her,  a  stranger  in  a  strange 
land. 

And  this  grim  busy  city,  with  its  multitude  of  inhabit- 
ants, who  were  profoundly  and  happily  ignorant  of  her 
existence,  was  this  her  land  of  promise  ?  What  promise 
did  it  hold  out  to  her?     None  that  she  could  see. 

But  her  depression  did  not  last  for  long;  she  had 
made  a  mistake,  but  it  was  now  done  with,  finished; 
there  should  be  no  repinings,  no  "devil's  Paternosters," 
as  P^re  Joseph  would  have  said. 


BLUE   ROSES  71 

And  with  the  thought  of  him  she  plucked  up  heart 
again.  Had  he  not  always  said  that  the  world  was 
full  of  roses?  There  did  not  seem  to  be  any  here  in 
London,  but  never  mind,  she  would  still  seek  them, 
and  be  content  with  the  pink  if  she  could  not  find  the 
blue. 


CHAPTER    IX 


NEW   FRIENDS 


"  Small  cheer,  and  great  welcome,  makes  a  merry  feast." 

Comedy  of  Errors. 

The  sun  was  going  down  in  a  blaze  of  splendour. 
The  distant  sky  was  a  mass  of  flame,  yellow  and  scarlet, 
as  though  the  very  heavens  were  flaring  in  some  pro- 
digious conflagration.  Across  it  hung  long,  low  clouds 
of  darkest  grey  and  purple,  drifted  like  smoke  from  the 
burning;  their  edges  sharply  reflecting  the  glow  behind 
them,  so  that  they  appeared  outlined  with  a  band  of 
gold. 

Above,  where  the  azure  of  day  was  fading  into  the 
pallor  of  twilight,  soft  cloudlets,  like  rose  leaves  of  ten- 
derest  pink  and  cream,  floated  gently  on  the  evening 
air. 

Molly  Arkwright,  who  was  seated  near  the  window, 
looked  up  from  her  work. 

"Oh,  Dick!  she  cried.  "Look!  Did  you  ever  see 
anything  so  gorgeous  ?  " 

Her  husband,  who  was  lying  on  a  sofa,  raised  himself 
very  slightly  on  his  pillows. 

"'The  inner  side  of  every  cloud  is  bright  and  shining, 
So  therefore,  turn  your  clouds  about 
And  always  wear  them  inside  out. 
To  show  the  lining.'  " 

quoted  Molly  softly.     "Look  at  the  lining  there.     Isn't 
it  wonderful  ?  " 

"I  suppose  you  wouldn't  like  it  if  I  said  it  was  a 
stormy  sky,"  he  said,  smiling.  "I  never  knew  such  a 
persistently  hopeful  little  woman." 

"Well,  there  always  is  a  bright  side,  isn't  there?" 
she  insisted,  with  a  little  laugh. 

72 


NEW   FRIENDS  78 

"Thank  God  you  can  find  it !  "  He  lay  back  as  he 
spoke,  and  a  sound  that  was  something  like  a  groan 
broke  from  him. 

In  a  moment  she  was  on  her  knees  beside  his  couch. 

"Is  the  pain  very  bad  to-night,  old  man?"  she  asked 
gently. 

"Pretty  stiff."  His  hand  moved  until  it  met  hers,  and 
clasped  it  closely.  "Molly,  have  you  realized  that  it  is 
two  years — over  two  years  now — that  I  have  lain  here 
like  a  useless  log  ?  " 

"Don't  say  that,"  she  answered  quickly.  "You  are 
not  useless.  I  know  it  is  desperately  hard  for  you,  but 
— you  are  going  to  be  better  soon." 

"Do  you  think  so?  Personally,  I  have  my  doubts. 
Watson  is  a  kind  chap,  but  I  fancy  he  is  beginning  to 
think  I  am  hopeless,  although  he  won't  say  so.  Molly, 
it  is  you  I  am  thinking  of  !  Here  I  am,  absolutely 
useless,  a  burden  to  you,  who  have  everything  to  bear. 
You  are  looking  so  tired,  my  sweet !  There  are  lines  on 
your  dear  face  that  weren't  there  a  few  rapnths  ago;  I 
could  see  them  quite  plainly  just  now  when  you  were 
sitting  by  the  window.  And  I,  who  would  spare  you 
everything,  can  do  nothing.     It  is  bitterly  hard  !  " 

"Dearest,"  she  said  tenderly,  "don't  think  about  me. 
I  love  to  be  with  you  and  to  look  after  you.  You  and 
the  children  are  all  my  world.  If  only  you  could  be 
free  from  pain  I  should  be  perfectly  happy.  And  you 
mustn't  say  that  you  are  useless.  That  last  story  is 
good— I  know  it  is  good." 

"I  wish  I  could  hope  that  the  publishers  would  be  of 
the  same  opinion." 

"They  will  be — you  will  see.  And  all  the  fine  summer 
weather  is  coming  now,  and  you  will  be  able  to  be  out  in 
the  garden,  which  will  do  you  no  end  of  good.  Don't 
lose  heart,  my  darling;  you  have  been  so  wonderfully 
plucky.  I  do  love  you  all  the  more  for  it."  She  laid 
her  face  down  to  his  as  she  spoke.  "Just  think,  we  have 
each  other  and  the  children  !  Surely  that  is  riches — 
great  riches  !  " 

"Well,  my  child,"  he  said,  with  a  touch  of  his  usual 


74  A   DREAM   OF   BLUE  ROSES 

whimsical  manner,  "if  you  consider  yourself  rich  in  the 
possession  of  a  sick  husband  who  is  most  infernally 
cross  at  times,  and  four  children  with  insatiable  appetites, 
together  with  an  income  of  twopence  halfpenny  a  year, 
you  are  very  easily  satisfied.  Forgive  me,  dearest;  I 
am  ,all  to  pieces  to-night.  If  you  were  not  an  angel, 
you  would  give  me  the  rating  I  deserve." 

"I  don't  think  you  deserve  anything  of  the  kind,"  said 
Molly  quickly.  "Do  you  think  I  don't  realize  what  it 
must  be  to  you  to  be  always  in  pain — never  able  to  do 
as  other  men?  There!  don't  let  us  talk  about  it  any 
more.  If  I  talk  about  it  I  shall  cry,  which  would  be 
most  unbecoming  to  a  middle-aged  matron  !  " 

Dick  laughed  outright  at  her  droll  way  of  speaking. 
"You — middle-aged!  I  suppose  we  have  been  married 
for  some  time,  because  there  is  irrefragable  evidence  to 
prove  it;  but  you — you  have  the  heart  of  youth,  my 
Molly,  and  will  have  to  the  end  of  the  chapter." 

"After  all,  money  doesn't  always  mean  happiness, 
although  I  grant  you  that  a  little  more  would  be  a 
convenience.  Still,  just  you  think,  Dickie,  what  we  have 
to  be  thankful  for.  The  boys  are  most  awfully  good, 
and  Patsy — Patsy  is  a  cherub  !  " 

"Patsy  is  a  cherub,"  he  agreed.  "And  dear  old  Phil, 
he  is  a  good  lad,  grinding  away  in  a  beastly  office, 
instead  of  having  a  J^ood  time.  He  ought  to  be  having 
the  time  of  his  life  at  Cambridge  now.  It  is  fearfully 
rough  on  him." 

"It  won't  hurt  him ;  he  has  been  splendid.  And,  after 
all,  it  is  good  for  boys  to  learn  to  do  without  luxuries ; 
they  appreciate  them  so  much  more  afterwards.  Of 
course,  I  don't  mean  to  say  that  an  office  in  St.  Ethel's 
is  what  we  should  have  chosen  for  him,  any  more  than 
that  the  Grammar  School  is  what  we  should  have  chosen 
for  Lance  and  Tony ;  but  it  is  the  best  we  can  do,  so  it 
is  no  use  regretting  it.  They  are  good  boys,  and  I  can 
trust  them  anywhere." 

"It  is  pretty  different  from  what  I  had  as  a  boy.  I 
had  such  a  good  time  at  the  old  Hill  and  at  Cambridge." 

"Well,  poor  old  dear,  you  have  got  the  rough  time 


NEW   FRIENDS  76 

now,  haven't  you?  The  boys  are  starting  with  it,  and 
they'll  have  all  the  fun  later  on,  you  see  if  they  don't." 

"Invincible  optimist!  "  retorted  her  husband  fondly. 

Molly  rose  and  began  to  tidy  the  room.  "I'll  make  a 
fair  copy  of  this  to-morrow,"  she  said,  as  she  put  some 
sheets  of  manuscript  away  in  a  drawer. 

"  I  wish  I  could  do  it,  but  I  go  very  slowly  as  yet.  I 
can't  get  my  right  hand  to  work  any  pace." 

"Oh,  it  won't  take  long.  I  only  hope  Stephen  Grant 
won't  want  his  typewriter  back  just  yet;  I  really  could 
not  spare  it." 

"He's  a  kind  fellow,  Stephen,  although  he  never  says 
much.  I  wonder  where  he  has  got  to?  It  seems  a  very 
long  time  since  we  heard  of  him." 

"  Mr.  Poole  told  me  yesterday  that  he  had  been  abroad 
for  nearly  a  year.  I  suppose  Miss  Leigh  told  him.  He 
was  on  his  way  back  from  Fiddler's  Green  when  I  met 
him." 

"Oh,  well,  if  Stephen  is  in  England,  it  won't  be  very 
long  before  we  see  him." 

The  door  opened,  and  a  maid-servant  walked  in ;  a 
buxom  girl  with  flaming  red  hair  and  a  pleasant,  honest 
face. 

"Please'm,"  she  said,  "Tom,  he  was  passing,  and 
seein'  as  how  father  he'd  killed  a  pig  last  Monday,  he's 
brought  us  a  bit  of  loin  as  a  present.  Me  an'  Alius  is 
passionately  fond  of  pork,  and,  please'm.  Me  an'  Alius 
was  hopin'  that  the  master  might  fancy  a  chop  for 
supper.  We  could  cook  a  chop  for  him  as  nice  as  nice. 
Me  an'  Alius  thought  as  it  would  be  a  change." 

Dick  glanced  at  Molly  with  a  twinkle  in  his  eye. 

"You  are  quite  right,  it  would  certainly  be  a  change. 
I  thank  you  and  Alice  very  much." 

"  How  nice  of  your  brother  !  "  said  Molly. 

"Please'm,  he  just  happened  to  be  passing,  and  I'm 
sure,  when  he  hears  that  master  fancied  it,  he'll  take  it 
very  kind." 

"Has  Miss  Patsy  come  in?" 

"Miss  Patsy's  out  with  Master  Lance  and  Master 
Tony,  please'm." 


76  A  DREAM   OF   BLUE   ROSES 

"Molly,"  asked  Dick  earnestly,  as  the  door  closed 
behind  her,  "are  you  passionately  fond  of  pork?" 

Molly  laughed ;  she  had  a  most  delicious  laugh,  a  low 
gurgle  of  merriment. 

"Poor  dear,  what  will  you  do?  You  can't  possibly 
sup  off  pork,  and  survive  !  We  shall  have  to  give  it  to 
one  of  the  boys  on  the  sly.  It  really  was  impossible  to 
hurt  the  feelings  of  '  Me  an'  Alius.'  They  meant  it  so 
well." 

"I  shall  pin  all  my  hope  on  Philip,"  he  declared  gaily. 

"I  expect  that  girl  will  be  here  directly,"  said  Molly. 

"  What  girl  ?  "  he  asked. 

"Barbara  Vincent." 

"  I  had  forgotten  all  about  her !  " 

"  So  had  I  until  I  had  a  letter  from  her  saying  that  she 
was  coming  to-day.  I  had  written  to  old  Mademoiselle 
to  say  we  should  be  pleased  to  see  her  at  any  time.  Poor 
dear  old  Maddy,  as  we  used  to  call  her,  she  was  awfully 
good  to  me  when  I  was  a  child." 

"  What  has  the  girl  come  over  for  ?  " 

"I  don't  really  know.  Maddy  said  something  about 
her  having  business.  I  don't  think  she  has  any  friends 
in  England." 

At  this  moment  there  was  the  sound  of  a  bell,  and 
Molly  added,  "I  expect  she  has  arrived.  I  will  go  and 
meet  her." 

Dick  prepared  to  rise.  "Oh,  don't  get  up  !  "  she  said 
hastily. 

"Nonsense.  I  may  be  feeble,  but  I  can  still  get  up  to 
greet  a  visitor."    And  he  stood  up  as  he  spoke. 

Dick  Arkwright  was  a  striking-looking  man,  in  spite 
of  the  havoc  that  accident  and  illness  had  wrought  in 
him.  He  was  tall  and  very  thin,  his  hair  was  dark,  and 
the  small,  pointed  beard  that  he  wore  gave  him  rather 
a  foreign  look.  Constant  suffering  had  drawn  a  network 
of  fine  lines  round  his  eyes,  but  their  expression  was 
bright  and  alert.  There  was  something  virile,  almost 
boyish,  in  his  general  appearance.  His  thin  flannel  coat 
and  soft  silk  shirt  hung  loosely  on  his  emaciated  frame. 
His  right  arm  was  supported  in  a  sling  of  black  silk. 


NEW   FRIENDS  77 

There  was  a  sound  of  voices,  and  presently  his  wife 
returned,  accompanied  by  Barbara.  He  moved  forward 
a  few  steps  to  greet  her. 

"How  do  you  do?"  he  said  cheerily.  "We  are  very 
pleased  to  see  you.    Excuse  my  left  hand,  will  you?" 

"It  is  very  good  of  you  and  Mrs.  Arkwright  to  let  me 
come,"  said  Barbara  shyly. 

"Now,  Dick,  lie  down  again,"  said  Molly.  "Miss 
Vincent  will  excuse  you,  I  know.  He  is  not  very  strong 
yet,"  she  explained,  "and  I  have  to  be  very  severe  with 
him.     How  long  have  you  been  in  England?" 

"Only  about  a  fortnight." 

"And  was  it  the  first  time  you  had  seen  London?" 
asked  Dick.    "What  did  you  think  of  it?  " 

"Yes,  the  first  time.     It  is  a  wonderful  city." 

"You  don't  seem  to  have  appreciated  it  much,"  he 
continued,  smiling.  "You  speak  as  if  it  had  dis- 
appointed you  !  Tell  us  what  your  impressions  were. 
What  struck  you  most  ?  " 

"The  first  thing  was  the  noise,"  said  Barbara  can- 
didly. "  I  should  never  have  imagined  that  any  people 
could  live  in  such  a  noise  !  " 

"And  yet  some  people  love  it,  you  know.  It  acts  as 
a  sort  of  stimulus  to  their  brains.  There  is  something 
magnetic  in  the  whirl." 

"For  me,  I  do  not  think  I  could  preserve  my  intel- 
ligence," said  Barbara  decidedly. 

Molly  and  her  husband  laughed  at  the  girl's  quaint 
way  of  expressing  herself. 

"  I  must  honestly  confess  I  should  like  to  be  back  there 
again,"  said  Dick  Arkwright,  with  a  stifled  sigh;  "for  a 
while,  at  all  events.  But  I  can  understand  your  feelings 
if  you  have  always  lived  in  the  country.  And  what 
else  ?  " 

"You  will  think  it  strange,  doubtless,"  said  Barbara, 
smiling;  her  shyness  was  fast  disappearing  before  his 
friendly  manner.    "TBut  the  other  thing  was  loneliness  !  " 

"Loneliness?"  he  echoed. 

"Yes;  there  were  many  people,  truly,  but  they  did 
not  know  me." 


78  A  DREAM   OF  BLUE   ROSES 

"I  know  what  you  mean,"  said  Molly  quickly.  "You 
mean  no  one  knew  or  cared  whether  you  were  there  or 
not !  " 

"I  am  sure  it  was  very  stupid  of  me,"  continued 
Barbara,  "but  it  absolutely  frightened  me,  and  at  the 
last  I  fled.  I  could  not  endure  it.  1  have  often  been 
quite  alone  in  the  country,  many  miles  away,  but  I  have 
never  felt  so  alone  there." 

Dick  nodded.  "I  can  understand  that;  it  would  be 
different.    However,  I  am  glad  you  fled  to  us." 

"You  are  very  kind." 

"Now  that  you  have  come,  I  hope  it  will  be  a  long 
visit,"  said  Molly  kindly.  "Do  tell  me  all  about  Maddy 
— Madame  Maurice,  I  should  say.    How  is  she  ?  " 

"  I  always  call  her  Petite  M6re.  She  is  very  well,  and 
sent  you  many  affectionate  messages." 

"It  is  so  long  since  I  have  seen  her;  I  wonder  if  she 
has  altered  much." 

"I  do  not  think  so.  She  has  looked  just  the  same 
ever  since  I  have  known  her." 

"  Poor  Monsieur  Maurice !  She  must  have  felt  his 
death  terribly !  " 

"It  is  an  abiding  sorrow  to  all  who  knew  him,"  said 
Barbara  simply.    "  He  was  an  angel,  P^re  Joseph  !  " 

"You  must  tell  me  everything  to-morrow,  when  you 
are  rested." 

"We  are  very  simple  people  here,"  said  Dick.  "I 
hope  you  won't  be  bored." 

Barbara  looked  rather  mystified,  and  he  explained, 
adding,  "You  speak  most  wonderfully  good  English." 

"I  thought  I  did,"  she  said  ruefully,  "but  since  I  have 
been  here,  there  seem  to  be  so  many  words  that  I  cannot 
understand." 

"Ah  !  that  is  slang.  English  as  she  is  spoke.  You'll 
soon  get  used  to  that,"  he  said,  laughing. 

"Why,  here  is  my  Patsy,"  cried  Molly  joyfully. 

A  little  girl  entered  the  room  and  ran  to  her  mother's 
side. 

"Say  how  do  you  do  to  Miss  Vincent.  This  is 
Patricia,  generally  known  as  Patsy.     She  is  seven  years 


NEW    FRIENDS  79 

old,  and  I  won't  have  you  say  she  is  small  for  her  age, 
because  I  refuse  to  acknowledge  it." 

Barbara  laughingly  denied  any  thought  of  doing  so, 
and,  indeed,  it  would  have  been  difficult  to  criticize  the 
lovely  child.  A  little  fairy  form,  dressed  in  a  much 
faded  but  spotlessly  clean  blue  cotton  frock;  large  blue 
eyes,  with  all  the  mystery  and  wonder  of  childhood  in 
them,  an  aureole  of  sunny  curls  surrounding  her  perfect 
baby  face. 

Under  her  arm  she  clasped  a  huge  and  most  particu- 
larly hideous  golliwog. 

"What  a  wonderful  doll  you  have!"  said  Barbara, 
by  way  of  starting  the  conversation. 

"Jolly  lucky  you  did  not  say  ugly,"  laughed  Dick. 
"Patsy  would  never  have  forgiven  you." 

"It's  not  a  doll,"  said  the  little  mite  solemnly.  "It's 
Lord  Roberts,  He  has  not  been  very  well  to-day,  but 
the  pain  is  better  to-night.  It  is  the  wound  he  got  in 
Kandahar  which  hurts  him. 

"  Poor  Lord  Roberts !  "  murmured  Barbara  sympa- 
thetically. 

Patsy  drew  closer  and  laid  the  suffering  Lord  Roberts 
on  Barbara's  knee.  "You  may  hold  him  if  you  like. 
I  have  three  more,  and  one  day  I  will  show  them  to 
you." 

"  What  are  their  names  ?  " 

"One  is  Abracadabra,  and  one  is  just  plain  Jane,  but 
the  most  beautiful  of  all  is  the  Apollo  Belvidere." 

"He  must  be  very  beautiful." 

"Yes,  he  is,"  assented  Patsy;  "but  you  cannot  see  him 
to-day,  because  he  is  in  America." 

"In  America  !  "  said  Barbara  in  surprise. 

"Yes  he  is  in  America;  he  travels  a  great  deal.  But 
I  expect  him  home  to-morrow.  Last  week  he  went  to 
Japan." 

"Lucky  Apollo!     I  wish  he  would  take  me!  " 

"  I  am  afraid  that  would  be  impossible,"  said  the  child 
politely,  but  quite  decidedly. 

"  Where  are  the  boys,  Pat  ?  "  asked  her  father. 

"Washin',"  said  Pat  laconically. 


80  A  DREAM  OF  BLUE   ROSES 

"I  am  delighted  to  hear  it,"  said  her  mother. 

"We  had  a  very  nice  walk.  We  went  to  hunt  for 
primroses,  but  there  wasn't  none,  and  then  we  hunted 
for  snails  in  the  garden  instead,  till  Me  an'  Alius  said 
it  was  time  to  come  in.  Don't  you  think  he  has  a  very 
clever  face  ?  "  asked  Patsy,  referring  to  the  distinguished 
soldier  who  was  lying  on  Barbara's  lap,  staring  at  the 
ceiling  with  two  round,  flat,  white  eyes. 

Her  mother  laughed.  "Miss  Vincent  must  be  tired. 
You  sit  still  and  talk  to  Daddy,  while  I  take  her  upstairs." 

"I  hope  you  don't  mind  a  small  room,"  she  said,  as 
they  entered  a  tiny  bedroom  over  the  hall,  "but  this 
house  is  so  wee." 

"Indeed  not!  I  only  think  it  is  so  wonderfully  kind 
of  you  to  welcome  me  like  this,  for  I  am  quite  a  stranger 
to  you." 

"Ah  !  but  you  won't  be  for  long.  It  is  a  delight  to  me 
to  have  a  visitor;  so  few  people  come  to  see  us  here. 
You  see  that,  owing  to  my  husband's  health,  we  cannot 
entertain  at  all." 

"I  hope  he  is  getting  better.  Has  he  been  ill  for 
long  ?  "  asked  Barbara  gently. 

"He  had  a  terrible  accident  nearly  three  years  ago. 
The  motor  he  was  in  ran  into  another  car,  and  he  was 
dreadfully  injured;  and  then,  just  as  he  was  getting 
better,  neuritis  set  in.  We  try  to  think  he  is  getting 
stronger  now."  Molly  spoke  bravely.  "  He  is  wonder- 
fully patient,  but  the  pain  is  very  great  at  times.  That 
accounts  for  his  clothes,  which  I  feel  I  ought  to  apolo- 
gize for;  but  on  some  days  he  can  hardly  bear  the 
lightest  silk  to  touch  him.  He  was  such  a  strong,  active 
man.     But  I  refuse  to  give  up  hope." 

Barbara  murmured  words  of  sympathy.  She  hardly 
liked  to  offer  the  pity  she  felt  to  a  woman  she  Tiardly 
knew,  and  Molly's  simple  words  were  very  touching. 
"Don't  go,  unless  you  are  busy,"  she  said,  as  the  other 
rose.  "Do  stay  while  I  unpack.  You  don't  know  what 
it  is  to  me  to  hear  a  friendly  voice  after  so  many  days 
away  from  home  !     Have  you  lived  here  long  ?  " 

"Only   about   two   years.     We   lived   near    London 


NEW  FRIENDS  81 

before,  in  a  very  charming  house.  My  husband  is  a 
barrister,  and  he  was  doing  so  well ;  but  after  his  illness 
we  had  to  move.  This  little  house  belonged  to  him, 
so  we  came  here.  It  is  really  very  pretty  in  the  summer; 
but,  of  course,  he  misses  his  friends,  and  feels  he  is  out 
of  touch  with  all  that  is  going  on  in  the  world.  But  in 
some  ways  it  is  convenient.  The  younger  boys  are  at 
school  here,  and  Philip — he  is  the  eldest — goes  to  his 
work  here  every  day." 

"How  old  is  he?" 

"He  is  nineteen,  and  hugely  tall." 

"  Is  it  possible  ?  You  do  not  look  as  if  you  could  have 
a  son  so  old  !  " 

"Wait  until  you  see  him,"  was  the  laughing  reply. 
"By  the  way,  there  is  a  letter  and  a  parcel  for  you 
downstairs.  You  shall  have  them  when  you  come  down. 
I  must  fly  now.  Don't  make  too  elaborate  a  toilet, 
please — just  a  blouse  or  something  of  the  kind.  I  don't 
dress  now-a-days ;  I  only  clothe  myself  !  " 

When,  a  little  later,  the  party  were  seated  round  the 
dining-table  at  their  evening  meal,  Barbara  thought  that 
she  had  never  imagined  such  a  delightful  family.  Dick 
Arkwright,  who  had  entered  the  room  leaning  on  the 
strong  arm  of  his  eldest  son,  was  seated  in  an  arm-chair 
at  the  head  of  the  table.  Barbara  was  next  him,  with 
Philip  beside  her,  and  the  two  younger  boys.  Lance  and 
Tony,  opposite.  Little  Patsy  had  gone  to  bed.  Barbara 
noticed  that  the  boys  were  quite  without  fear  or  con- 
straint in  the  presence  of  their  parents.  The  two 
younger  ones  were,  it  is  true,  rather  silent,  but  that  was 
chiefly  because  they  were  fully  occupied  in  satisfying 
the  demands  of  their  healthy  appetites ;  but  their  affection 
for  their  father  and  mother  had  been  easily  seen  in  their 
evening  greeting.  Philip,  the  eldest,  chatted  away, 
recounting  his  day's  doings  in  most  amusing  fashion, 
while  Dick,  who  was  in  excellent  spirits,  kept  the  ball 
of  conversation  merrily  rolling.  The  fare  was  simple. 
The  younger  boys  supped  contentedly  off  bread  and 
cheese,  but  there  was  a  dish  of  hash  and  some  potatoes 
on  the  table. 


82  A  DREAM  OF  BLUE  ROSES 

The  maid  had  brought  in  the  historic  pork  chop,  and 
placed  it  proudly  before  her  master,  with  the  words, 
"Me  an'  Alius  hopes  you'll  enjoy  it,  sir,"  and  had 
departed,  well  pleased  with  some  humorous  speech  on 
his  part;  but  the  invalid's  fare  of  bread  and  milk  was 
more  to  his  liking,  and  Philip  had  proved  equal  to  the 
occasion. 

"I  have  no  doubt  you  will  be  amused  at  our  servants," 
said  Molly,  "but  you  will  soon  get  used  to  them." 

"They  rule  us  with  a  rod  of  iron,"  Philip  assured  her. 

"What  is  it  she  said?"  asked  Barbara.  "I  could  not 
catch  it." 

"Me  an'  Alius.  She's  Me,  and  Alius  is  her  sister," 
explained  the  lad  grammatically.  "They're  sort  of 
Siamese  twins,  and  Me  does  all  the  talking  for  Alius, 
who  is  dumb." 

"Not  really?" 

"Oh,  no,  not  really  !    But  she  isn't  given  a  chance  I  " 

"They  are  very  good  girls;  we  mustn't  laugh  at  them," 
said  Molly. 

"But  we  all  do,"  said  her  husband.  "They'd  miss  it 
fearfully  if  we  didn't.  How  was  Mr.  Roach  to-day, 
Phil?" 

"Oh,  the  old  fish  was  not  so  dusty,"  he  replied  airily. 
"But  that  reminds  me,  I  really  did  have  some  fun  to-day. 
I  don't  know  if  you  know  Mrs.  Sands,  who  lives  in  that 
big  house  above  St.  Matthew's  Church — a  stout  old 
party  with  an  enormous  opinion  of  herself.  Well,  she 
sailed  into  the  office  and  asked  to  see  the  old  fish,  who 
was  out.  It  so  happened  that  Mr.  Wells  was  out  too, 
and  your  humble  servant  was  monarch  of  all  he  sur- 
veyed. I  received  her  most  politely,  and  regretted  Mr. 
Roach's  absence,  asking  if  I  could  be  of  any  service  to 
her.  She  glared  at  me  through  a  pair  of  starers  on  a 
long  stick.  '  Who  are  you  ?  '  she  asked,  with  her  nose 
in  the  air. 

"'My  name  is  Arkwright,  Madam,'  I  replied. 

"'  Oh  !  '  says  she,  more  graciously.  *  Any  relation  to 
the  Arkwrights  of  Tiddlypush  ' — or  some  such  place  I 
had  never  heard  of—*  an  old  county  family  ?  ' 


NEW   FRIENDS  88 

*"  My  first  cousins,  Madam,'  says  I. 

"Well,  then  she  told  me  a  long  story  about  a  drunken 
cook  she  had  fired  out,  and  asked  me  what  she  ought  to 
pay  her,  etc.,  etc.,  and  I  gave  her  a  great  deal  of  excellent 
advice." 

"Oh,  Philip,  you  didn't?"  cried  his  mother. 

"Wait  half  a  minute;  the  best  is  to  come.  She  sailed 
out  at  last,  and  as  she  went  she  held  out  her  hand. 
'  Good-bye,  Mr.  Arkwright,'  she  said  (here  Phil  put  on 
a  ridiculous  imitation  of  her  manner).  '  I  hope  I  may 
have  the  pleasure  of  seeing  you  at  Choicelea.  I  know 
so  many  of  your  cousins  so  well.' 

" '  Thank  you,'  says  I,  equally  politely.  '  By  the  way, 
are  you  related  to  the  Sands  of  Dee,  an  old  county 
family  ?  ' 

" '  I  know  them  very  well  by  name,'  says  she,  fright- 
fully pleased.  '  And  I  think  I  met  them  once  at 
Brighton.' 

"With  that  she  stepped  into  her  family  coach,  and  I 
whistled  the  opening  bars  of  '  Oh,  Mary,  go  and  call  the 
cattle  home,'  and  simply  longed  for  cornet,  flute,  harp, 
sackbut,  psaltery,  or  any  kind  of  music  !  " 

By  this  time  the  whole  party  were  in  fits  of  laughter 
at  Phil's  irresistibly  funny  way  of  telling  the  story. 

"You  had  better  go  and  call,"  said  Dick  at  last. 

"Not  I  !  "  quoth  Philip,  rising  to  help  his  father  into 
the  other  room. 


G2 


CHAPTER    X 


HOPES   RENEWED 


"  Don't  cross  the  bridge  till  you  come  to  it, 
Is  a  proverb  old,  and  of  excellent  wit." 

Longfellow. 

"Mother,"  said  Lance,  as  they  walked  into  the  next 
room,  "  I  took  an  awful  toss  off  my  bicycle  to-day,  and 
I  am  afraid  my  coat  suffered  pretty  considerably." 

"Not  really?"  she  asked  anxiously. 

"Yes,  I'm  afraid  so.  The  beastly  thing  skidded,  and 
I  was  in  the  road  before  I  knew  I  was  falling.  There 
must  have  been  some  motor  oil  or  something  about, 
because  it's  a  regular  stain.  I  went  to  the  garage  and 
got  them  to  give  me  some  petrol,  and  tried  to  clean  it, 
but  it  was  no  use." 

"  Oh,  Lance  !  I  had  so  hoped  that  coat  would  last  you 
a  long  time." 

"  It  was  quite  an  accident,"  replied  the  boy  regretfully ; 
"  I  am  most  fearfully  sorry." 

"Well,"  said  Molly,  stifling  a  sigh,  "never  mind,  dear 
boy.  It  can't  be  helped.  It  must  turn  again,  like 
Whittington,  Lord  Mayor  of  London  !  After  my 
brilliant  success  with  Phil's,  I  feel  I  am  quite  a  tailor. 
I'll  do  it  to-morrow;  you  must  wear  your  Sunday  coat, 
and  be  very  careful  of  it." 

"  I  hope  you  will  let  me  help  you,"  said  Barbara  quickly. 

"I  shall  be  only  too  pleased,"  was  Molly's  grateful 
reply. 

"Miss  Vincent,"  said  Philip,  who  had  been  listening 
to  the  conversation,  "when  you  know  my  mother  better, 
you  will  learn  that  although  she  is  small  in  stature  she 
is  great  in  expedients.  She  has  a  favourite  poem  which 
you  will  hear  her  quote  frequently  to  her  intelligent 
offspring.     It  is  this — 

84 


HOPES    RENEWED  85 

" '  The  outer  side  of  all  your  clothes  is  bright  and  shining : 
So  therefore  turn  your  clothes  about, 
And  always  wear  them  inside  out, 
To  show  the  lining.' 

We  all  turn  our  coats,  but  I  would  like  to  point  out  to 
you  that  we  none  of  us  will  submit  to  be  called  '  Turn- 
coat,' being  a  staunchly  Conservative  family." 

"You  are  quite  bewildering  her  with  your  nonsense," 
laughed  his  mother. 

"Not  at  all.  Miss  Vincent  is,  I  am  sure,  grateful  to 
me  for  explaining  to  her  the  niceties  of  our  complicated 
mother  tongue.  But  as  my  old  nurse  used  to  say,  '  Law, 
Philip,  how  you  do  run  on  !  '  Come  on,  boys,  we've  all 
got  some  work  to  do  to-night." 

"Bring  Miss  Vincent  her  parcel  before  you  go,"  said 
Molly. 

"It  is  from  home!"  said  Barbara,  looking  at  it.  "I 
think  I  can  guess  what  it  is.  Yes,  I  thought  so,"  she 
added,  as  she  opened  it,  "some  of  Melanie's  little  cakes; 
do  take  some,  all  of  you,  please ;  we  call  tHem  '  Aillettes 
d'Anges,'  little  wings  of  angels." 

The  delicacies  were  much  appreciated  by  the  boys,  who 
soon  after  left  the  room. 

"Now,"  said  Molly  smiling,  "we  shall  be  peaceful.  I 
do  want  you  to  tell  me  all  your  news.  Didn't  Maddy 
say  you  came  over  on  business  ?  " 

"Yes,  I  did." 

"I  hope  it  progressed  favourably,"  said  Dick,  as  the 
girl  hesitated. 

"It  did  not  take  very  long,"  she  answered,  flushing  a 
little  at  the  recollection  of  what  she  now  considered  her 
stupidity.  "And  now  I  must  tell  you  I  am  looking  for 
employment." 

"You  want  to  stay  in  England?" 

"Yes,  I  must  stay  in  England — you  see  Petite  M^re 
is  very  poor,  and  I  cannot  be  at  home  idle." 

"What  sort  of  work  do  you  want?  " 

"I  will  take  anything  I  am  fitted  for,"  said  Barbara 
simply. 

"Why  not  teaching?" 


86  A   DREAM   OF   BLUE   ROSES 

"There  seems  to  be  some  difficulty  in  finding  it.     I 
was  so  very  hopeful  at  first,  but  now  I  begin  to  see  it  is 
not  so  easy.     I  went  to  several  offices  in  London.     If  it 
had  not  been  so  important  to  me,  it  would  have  been 
very  funny.     But  it  was   too  serious  to  laugh  at  the 
time.     I  got  the  name  of  a  place  from  some  one  who  was 
stopping  in  the  hotel,  and  went  there.     I  asked  rather 
nervously  to  see  the  principal,  and  was  received  by  a 
most  severe  and  very  smartly  dressed  lady,  who  was  sit- 
ting at  a  table,  with  a  large  book  in  front  of  her.     She 
did  not  speak,  so  I  said  quite  meekly — 
" '  I  desire  to  find  a  post  as  governess.' 
"'Previous  experience?  '  she  asked. 
"'  I  have  no  experience  in  teaching.' 
"•What  languages?' 
"'  English  and  French.' 

"'What  diplomas  do  you  hold?'     I  did  not  under- 
stand what  she  meant,  so  she  said,  '  What  examinations 
have  you  passed  ?  '     To  which  I  replied  that  I  had  passed 
examinations  every  term  at  the  Convent  where  I  was 
educated,  but  that  was  all. 
" '  No  State  examinations  ?  * 
"'No.' 
"'Music?' 

"'Yes,'  I  said,  '  I  can  play  a  little,  enough  to  teach 
young  children.' 

'"  That  is  no  use,'  she  said  haughtily.  '  Where  did 
you  study — at  what  Conservatoire  ?  ' 

"'  I  was  taught  privately,'  I  said,  thinking  of  funny 
little  Monsieur  Le  Breton,  who  used  to  give  me  lessons 
and  taught  me  to  play  '  Les  Cloches  de  Corneville  '  and 
Rubinstein's  Melody  in  F.  I  must  tell  you,  however, 
that  this  last  was  in  a  simplified  edition  !  But  to 
continue — 


(<  ( 


No  Italian?  '  was  her  next  question. 

"'  No.' 

"At  last  she  got  quite  cross.  '  You  have  no  qualifica- 
tions for  the  post  of  governess.  You  are  more  fit  for  a 
mother's  help.  I  only  accept  the  names  of  ladies  with 
the  highest  qualifications.    My  clientele  is  entirely  com- 


HOPES   RENEWED  87 

posed  of  the  nobility  and  gentry,  who  require  most 
highly  educated  persons.  You  are  of  no  use  to  me. 
Good-morning.' 

"She  made  me  feel  very  humble,  and  I  had  not  the 
slightest  idea  what  a  mother's  help  was.  Is  it  something 
very  dreadful  ?  But  in  one  way  she  was  kind,  for  she 
did  not  take  my  money,  as  some  others  did.  I  went  to 
many  offices,  and  even  saw  several  ladies  in  response  to 
advertisements  which  I  saw  in  the  papers,  but  no  good 
came  of  it.  I  went  everywhere  and  did  all  I  possibly 
could  to  find  something,  but  there  seemed  so  many  poor 
things  doing  the  same  thing.  When  I  called  on  one 
lady  who  had  advertised,  there  were  more  than  twenty 
women  there.  So  at  last,  I  confess,  I  could  not  help  feel- 
ing a  little  discouraged.  Also,  it  was  so  very  expensive 
staying  at  the  hotel.  I  had  not  a  good  room,  but  my 
account  at  the  end  of  a  week  frightened  me.  I  can 
assure  you  that  the  same  money  would  have  kept  us  all 
at  home  for  a  month  !  Do  you  think  that  it  will  be  more 
easy  to  find  something  in  the  country?  J  am  ready  to 
do  anything  :  I  am  very  strong,  but  I  begin  to  under- 
stand that  I  do  not  know  very  much  !  " 

"  I  am  sure  you  know  quite  enough  to  teach  little 
children,"  said  AloUy  kindly.  "I  will  write  to  my  sister 
and  one  or  two  friends." 

"Don't  be  in  any  hurry,"  put  in  Dick;  "we  are  only 
too  pleased  to  have  you  here.  You  ought  to  have  a 
holiday  before  you  settle  down." 

"Thank  you  very  much ;  you  are  both  more  than  kind, 
but  now  I  feel  that  I  ought  to  work  as  soon  as  possible. 
All  my  life  has  been  a  holiday,  I  think." 

"I  don't  wonder  that  you  didn't  find  London  amusing, 
poor  little  thing,"  said  Molly,  "if  you  were  hunting 
round  after  a  post  all  the  time." 

"  I  enjoyed  it  at  first,  but  nothing  is  very  amusing  if 
you  are  not  successful,  is  it  ?  " 

"Well,"  said  Dick,  "my  advice  is  to  forget  all  about 
it  for  the  present.    Something  will  turn  up,  never  fear." 

The  kindness  of  her  new  friends  put  fresh  courage  into 
Barbara's  heart.     She  was  ready  to  blame  herself  now 


88  A  DREAM   OF   BLUE   ROSES 

for  having  been  too  easily  cast  down,  but  in  truth  her 
time  in  London  had  been  the  most  trying  she  had  ever 
experienced.  Her  Hfe  had  been  so  sheltered  up  to  the 
present,  and  now  she  had  been  brought  face  to  face  with 
the  grim  fact  that  in  these  days  something  more  is  neces- 
sary than  willingness  to  work.  She  had  seen  women 
whose  faces  were  seared  with  the  bitterness  of  hope 
deferred — marred  by  constant  disappointments — pinched 
with  actual  want,  in  desperate  need,  and  yet  all  willing 
and  anxious  to  take  anything  that  was  offered  them,  any- 
thing that  would  enable  them  to  keep  body  and  soul 
together,  in  some  semblance  of  gentility.  Battered 
stragglers,  limping  in  the  van,  yet  fighting  despairingly 
for  a  footing  in  the  ranks  of  one  of  the  most  pitifully 
overcrowded  professions.  It  is  a  sight  to  make  the  heart 
bleed.  Small  wonder  if  the  courage  of  the  country- 
reared  girl  failed  for  a  while,  brought  face  to  face  with 
the  struggle — in  the  din,  and,  as  she  described  it,  the 
isolation  of  the  great  city.  Finally,  the  longing  for  fresh 
air,  for  green  fields  and  the  kindly  greeting  of  some  one 
who  knew  her  at  least  by  name  if  not  personally,  had 
been  too  strong  to  be  resisted.  In  addition  there  was 
always  at  the  back  of  her  mind  the  dread  of  reaching  the 
end  of  her  resources,  and  of  being  forced  to  return — a 
failure — to  be  a  burden  to  Petite  M^re.  She  had  thrust 
the  thought  from  her  :  failure  she  would  not  acknowledge 
till  she  had  seen  Molly  Arkwright. 

Now,  however,  all  her  confidence  returned,  and  she 
was  more  than  ready  to  believe  in  the  truth  of  Dick's 
cheerful  prophecy.     Something  would  turn  up  soon. 

After  Philip  had  taken  his  father  upstairs — it  was 
always  his  privilege  to  help  him  in  the  evenings — 
Barbara  and  Molly  sat  for  a  long  while  talking,  and 
when  they  went  to  bed,  the  girl  found  it  hard  to  realize 
that  she  had  only  known  her  kind  hostess  for  a  few  hours, 
so  far  had  they  advanced  on  the  road  to  intimacy. 

Her  first  act  when  she  found  herself  alone  was  to  open 
Petite  Mare's  letter;  it  was  a  long  one,  and  the  fine 
writing  in  the  faded  purple  ink  was  not  easy  to  read  by 


HOPES   RENEWED  89 

the  light  of  a  candle,  but  she  pored  over  it,  drinking  in 
every  detail  of  the  day's  doings,  every  trifling  circum- 
stance of  the  familiar  life. 

Of  her  own  feelings  Petite  M^re  said  little,  but  it  was 
easy  to  read  the  loving  anxiety  which  was  betrayed  in 
every  line.  She  longed  to  know  that  her  child  was  safe 
with  Molly,  to  whose  care  she  was  sending  this  letter 
to  await  arrival,  although  she  had  no  idea  whether  busi- 
ness might  not  take  her  to  any  other  part  of  England. 
It  would  doubtless  surprise  la  Petite  to  know  that 
Cleopatre  had  evinced  the  most  profound  depression 
since  her  departure.  Her  mood  had  been  all  that  there 
was  of  the  most  serious.  Her  appetite  even  had  seemed 
to  fail,  and  Alcibiade  and  his  wives  had  grown  fat  and 
insolent.  It  had  been  a  most  touching  state  of  affairs, 
but  Petite  Mere  was  pleased  to  be  able  to  say  that  since 
yesterday  her  spirits  had  recovered  somewhat,  and  her 
voice  had  been  less  often  raised  in  piteous  appeal  ! 

Also,  there  had  been  a  visitor  at  the  Pavilion — a  most 
unusual  event ! — seldom  did  Petite  M^re  receive  a  visit 
from  a  gentleman  !  It  had  been  none  other  than  Mon- 
sieur Jean  Paul  Laurent,  who,  departing  from  all  the 
long  established  customs  of  his  nation  and  class,  had 
come  himself  to  plead  his  cause.  He  had  been  bitterly 
disappointed  to  find  that  Mademoiselle  Vincent  had 
already  taken  her  departure.  He  had  begged  Petite 
M^re  to  write  and  assure  her  of  his  undying  devotion. 
He  had  been  intensely  chagrined  at  the  rumour  which 
he  had  understood  was  abroad,  namely,  that  he  had 
betrothed  himself  to  another  lady.  It  was  quite  untrue. 
How,  indeed,  could  it  be  possible  when  all  his  heart 
belonged  to  Babette  and  to  her  alone  !  It  was  unfortun- 
ate that  his  feelings  compelled  him  to  run  counter  to 
the  wishes  of  his  respected  mother,  who,  alas  !  could  not 
be  brought  to  see  reason  !  So  strained  indeed  had  their 
relations  become,  that  he  had  decided  to  leave  home  and 
take  up  business  in  Rouen.  He  had  already  found  an 
opening  which  promised  well  for  the  future.  If  Madem- 
oiselle Vincent  would  but  honour  him  with  her  regard, 
and  give  him  her  hand,  he  could  undertake  to  support 


90  A   DREAM   OF   BLUE   ROSES 

her  most  suitably,  although  modestly  at  first !  Would 
Madame  be  so  kind  as  to  convey  the  matter  of  their  con- 
versation to  Mademoiselle.  For  his  part  he  would  await 
her  pleasure — a  year,  two  years  hence — when  she  pleased, 
he  would  still  be  waiting. 

And  much  more  in  the  same  strain,  all  faithfully 
recorded  by  Petite  M^re.  "Thou  seest,  Mignonne,"  she 
ended,  "thou  canst  no  longer  call  him  a  downtrodden 
worm  !  His  form  may  not  be  elegant,  but  his  actions 
are  decidedly  those  of  a  man.  I  tell  thee  I  was  thankful 
that  I  could  with  truth  say  that  I  had  not  thy  present 
address,  for  I  assure  thee,  that  he  was  prepared  to  follow 
thee,  even  to  England.  I  have  told  him  plainly  that  his 
cause  is  hopeless,  but  what  wilt  thou?  '  No,'  seems  to 
be  a  word  he  cannot  understand.  Also  thou  wilt  be  glad 
to  know  that  the  little  grey  hen  has  no  less  than  ten 
chickens.     The  beautiful  pictures  have  given  us  infinite 

j^y "  ^  . 

Poor  Barbara !    the  splendid  presents  for  Petite  M^re 

and  Melanie  had  dwindled  down  to  a  packet  of  highly 

coloured  postcards,  bought  from  a  starving  man  on  the 

Thames  Embankment,  for  the  sum  of  eightpence-half- 

penny.     But  who  can  gauge  the  value  of  a  gift,  or  the 

pleasure  it  brings  to  the  recipient ! 

Barbara  slept  that  night  with  the  precious  letter  tightly 

clasped  in  her  hand,  a  bit  of  home  in  a  strange  land; 

and  was  happy,  for  she  dreamed  that  she  was  floating 

amid  rosy  clouds,  borne  aloft  on  soft  wings,  "the  little 

wings  of  angels,"  to  where  Petite  M^re  stood  awaiting 

her  with  outstretched  hands,  in  a  bower  of  blue  roses. 


CHAPTER    XI 


ST.    ETHEL  S 


"The  Past  and  Present  here  unite, 
Beneath  Time's  flowing  tide, 
Like  footsteps  hidden  by  a  brook 
But  seen  on  either  side." 

Longfellow. 

In  the  heart  of  England,  amid  gently  undulating 
fields  and  pleasant  woodlands,  lies  the  old  country  town 
of  St.  Etheldreda's,  so  named  after  the  patron  saintess 
of  its  ancient  Abbey  Church,  and  usually  called,  for 
brevity's  sake,  St.  Ethel's.  The  country  people  go  even 
further,  and  irreverently  decanonizing  the  pious  lady, 
talk  familiarly  of  "Ethel's." 

In  days  gone  by,  when  trains  were  unknown  and 
coaches  plied  along  the  great  highway  to  the  north,  St. 
Ethel's  was  a  place  of  some  importance,  but  now-a-days 
the  tide  of  commercial  progress  has  receded,  and  left 
it  stranded,  as  it  were,  in  a  quiet  backwater.  Its  pros- 
perity has  declined ;  there  may  even  be  seen  a  few  blades 
of  grass  between  the  old  stones  of  the  Market  Square, 
a  point  which  I  record  with  some  trepidation,  being 
sorely  afraid  of  wounding  the  tender  susceptibilities  of 
the  old  residents,  who  still  consider  St.  Ethel's  the  hub 
of  the  universe. 

There  is  about  the  place  a  leisurely  old-world  air,  and 
it  has  a  charm  all  its  own.  The  broad  street,  with  its 
old  timbered  houses  and  curious  octagonal  Court  House, 
has  remained  entirely  unaltered.  Over  the  bootmaker's 
shop  is  still  suspended  the  figure  of  an  angel,  blowing 
a  trumpet,  with  ridiculously  puffed-out  cheeks.  It  has 
hung  there  longer  than  any  one  living  can  remember, 
unchanged,  save  for  a  fresh  coat  of  gilding  from  time 
to  time. 

91 


92  A   DREAM   OF   BLUE   ROSES 

For  the  preservation  of  the  ancient  peace  of  St.  Ethel's 
we  have  to  thank  a  certain  irascible  old  gentleman,  by 
name  Sir  Jeremy  Knox,  who  earned  the  gratitude  of 
quiet  folk  by  opposing  with  all  his  vigour  the  proposal 
to  bring  the  railway  through  his  property,  in  the  middle 
of  the  last  century.  His  motives  were,  it  must  be 
confessed,  entirely  selfish,  but  his  memory  is  blessed. 
As  he  owned  the  greater  part  of  the  land  surrounding 
the  town,  the  result  was  that  the  railway  station  was 
placed  at  a  distance  of  two  miles  from  the  Market  Square. 
Let  those  who  deplore  the  inconvenience  of  the  arrange- 
ment hold  their  tongues  and  be  still.  To  Sir  Jeremy 
Knox  we  owe  more  than  we  can  repay. 

Round  the  station  there  has  sprung  up  a  mushroom 
growth  of  buildings — villas,  artisans'  houses,  and,  worst 
of  all,  several  factories.  The  inhabitants  of  St.  Ethel's 
proper,  view  this  with  great  disfavour,  and  speak  of  the 
neighbourhood  as  "Downhill."  It  is  on  a  lower  level 
than  the  old  towii,  both  socially  and  topographically. 
Those  who  live  "  Downhill "  are  given  no  chance  of 
rising  in  the  social  scale. 

The  ancient  abbey  of  St.  Etheldreda's,  or  what 
remains  of  it,  I  will  not  attempt  to  describe.  It  is  well 
known  to  students  of  architecture  of  the  period,  and 
strangers  may  obtain  a  guide-book  containing  all  par- 
ticulars, for  the  sum  of  sixpence,  at  the  little  shop  in 
Hen's  Walk,  where  Mrs.  Mumble  dispenses  sweets  and 
good  advice  with  strict  impartiality.  To  prevent  disap- 
pointment, I  will  say  at  once  that  it  gives  no  information 
about  the  hen,  who  she  was,  or  why  she  walked.  The 
name  has  been  the  topic  of  many  an  argument,  but  still 
remains  wrapp>ed  in  mystery.  I  have  heard  it  suggested 
that  Henn,  the  well-known  poet,  was  in  the  habit  of 
pacing  these  uneven  stones  when  the  fire  of  his  genius 
burned,  but,  again,  it  has  never  been  conclusively 
proved  that  Henn  was  even  aware  of  the  existence  of 
St.  Ethel's. 

To  return  to  the  Abbey  Church.  I  will  merely  say 
that  service  is  conducted  in  the  chancel,  the  nave  being 
in  ruins,  and  that  from  its  Norman  tower  the  familiar 


ST.    ETHEL'S  98 

notes  of  "  Home,  Sweet  Home,"  ring  out,  somewhat 
unevenly,  at  noon  and  midnight. 

Saturday  is  market  day,  and  for  some  twelve  hours 
the  old  town  wakes,  and  the  air  is  filled  with  the  bleating 
of  sheep,  the  lowing  of  cattle,  and  the  harsher  voices  of 
reluctant  pigs,  driven  this  way  and  that,  harassed  by  the 
consciousness  of  impending  doom.  Carriers'  carts, 
cumbersome,  unwieldy  vehicles  on  four  wheels,  with 
green  or  blue  tilts,  drawn  by  one  or  sometimes  two 
sturdy  horses,  set  down  parties  of  country-women  and 
their  farm  produce.  Well-to-do  farmers  and  their  wives 
drive  up  in  tax-carts  with  high-stepping  cobs  in  the 
shafts,  greeting  their  friends  in  cheery  words  spoken 
in  the  slow,  rather  drawling  accent  common  to  that  part 
of  the  country. 

I  remember  once  during  my  first  visit  to  St.  Ethel's 
seeing  an  old  farmer  arrive  on  the  scene,  driving  a  white 
mare  with,  to  my  astonishment,  her  very  young  foal 
running  beside  her.  I  remarked  to  a  by-stander  that  it 
seemed  rather  a  shame  to  be  working  the  mare.  "Well," 
was  the  reply,  "Matt  Clarke  wouldn't  get  home  to-night, 
without  the  old  mare  took  him  !  " 

A  cheerful  shrewdness  is  the  order  of  the  day,  but 
towards  night  it  develops  into  rustic  hilarity  and  jesting. 
Cheap-jacks  ply  their  trade  under  flaring  naphtha  lights, 
evoking  roars  of  laughter  by  their  nimble  and  often 
caustic  wit,  pressing  toys,  lace  curtains,  patent  medicines 
and  what-not  upon  the  gaping  crowd.  Sometimes  there 
will  be  a  wagon  drawn  up  close  to  the  water  trough, 
flaunting  a  sign,  "Painless  Dentistry."  It  is  fairly  well 
patronized,  but  personally  I  have  always  doubted  the 
truth  of  the  adjective  !  Why  have  a  man  alongside  who 
bangs  furiously  on  an  enormous  drum  at  the  moment 
of  extraction,  if  not  to  drown  the  screams  of  the 
victim  ? 

About  half-a-mile  from  the  Court  House,  on  the  road 
to  Barnham,  stands  a  small  white  house.  If  the  devil 
had  walked  on  his  travels  he  would  assuredly  have 
grinned,  for  it  boasts  a  double  coach-house  on  one  side, 
on    the    other    is    a    garden,    delightfully    shaded    in 


94  A  DREAM   OF   BLUE  ROSES 

summer,  and  screened  from  the  passer-by  by  a  tall  yew 
hedge. 

Its  next  door  neighbour,  at  a  distance  of  about  a 
hundred  yards,  is  a  public  house,  bearing  the  curious 
sign,  "The  Case  is  Altered."  The  origin  is  easily 
explained  :  the  license  was  granted  about  eighty  years 
ago — before  that  travellers  had  been  unable  to  obtain 
liquid  refreshment  until  they  reached  the  "  Red  Lion  " 
at  St.  Ethel's. 

Dick  Arkwright  had  inherited  the  "  White  House " 
from  an  old  cousin,  and  when  illness,  with  its  resulting 
misfortunes,  fell  on  him,  Molly  had  been  thankful 
enough  to  bring  him  down  to  the  quiet  spot,  which  was 
all  they  could  call  their  own.  Previous  to  that,  he  had 
been  making  a  fine  income,  and  they  had  lived  in  com- 
fort, taking  no  particular  heed  for  the  morrow,  but  the 
accident  which  had  robbed  him  of  health  had  robbed 
him  also  of  the  means  of  livelihood,  and  their  income 
was  sorely  reduced.  There  was  nothing  for  it  but  to 
face  the  position.  The  comfortable  home  was  given  up, 
servants  were  dismissed,  horses  were  sold,  and,  what 
was  harder  than  everything  for  the  parents  to  bear,  the 
boys  could  no  longer  remain  at  their  expensive  schools. 
The  course  of  their  whole  life  had  to  be  changed. 

Phil  had  refused  to  avail  himself  of  an  uncle's  offer 
to  enable  him  to  continue  at  Harrow.  He  had  fortun- 
ately obtained  a  clerkship  in  a  solicitor's  office  in  St. 
Ethel's,  and  was  working  uncomplainingly.  The  pay 
was  small,  but  it  was  a  help  to  the  little  household,  and 
the  lad  was  able  to  do  much  for  his  father,  small  services 
which  would  otherwise  have  fallen  on  his  mother's  over- 
burdened shoulders.  The  sudden  fall  from  comfort  to 
poverty,  the  constant  galling  fret  of  the  struggle  to 
make  both  ends  meet,  must  of  necessity  be  a  hard  trial 
to  a  delicately  nurtured  woman. 

It  was  during  the  first  few  days  of  Molly's  life  at  the 
"White  House"  that,  worn  with  nursing  and  harassed 
almost  beyond  endurance,  she  had  heard  a  ring  at  the 
back-door.  The  charwoman,  who  was  at  the  moment 
the    only    domestic    (Molly    had    feared    to    bring   old 


ST.   ETHEL'S  95 

servants  to  the  new  regime,  and  was  seeking  new  ones), 
was  busy  upstairs. 

"  Who  is  there  ?  "  she  called. 

"Please'm,  it's  me,"  was  the  answer.  She  went  to 
the  door.  A  young  woman,  with  flaming  red  hair  and  a 
cheerful,  honest  face,  stood  outside.  A  small  tin-box, 
securely  corded,  was  beside  her  on  the  step. 

"Amelia  Marsh,  please'm,  the  house-parlourmaid. 
Mr.  Poole  sent  me." 

An  angel  from  heaven  could  hardly  have  been  more 
welcome  at  the  moment,  and  Molly  gladly  accepted 
Amelia  Marsh  as  such.  She  proved  herself  a  capable, 
willing  servant. 

Then  followed  a  period  of  constant  trouble  with  cooks, 
until  one  day  Amelia  made  the  following  statement — 

"Please'm,  you  won't  be  troubled  no  more  with  them 
cooks  !  " 

"What  do  you  mean?"  asked  Molly  wearily. 

"Please'm,  me  an'  Alius  will  manage  very  well.  I've 
sent  for  her.  Tom  is  a  bringing  of  her  over  this  very 
afternoon.  She's  my  sister,  and  was  thinkin'  of 
changing  her  place.  She's  been  livin'  with  Mr.  Grey, 
the  clergyman  at  Denbridge,  and  mother  did  feel  it  was 
time  she  took  service  with  gentry." 

"Can  she  cook?  " 

"Please'rri,  there  won't  be  no  need  for  you  to  worry. 
Me  an'  Alius  can  see  as  you're  comfortable." 

Alice  proved  to  be  a  small  edition  of  her  sister,  pain- 
fully shy  and  practically  silent.  She  never  faced  her 
master  or  mistress,  or  took  an  order,  if  she  could  help  it. 

And  the  rule  of  Me  an'  Alius  began — a  rule  firm  and 
beneficent. 

Amelia  never  spoke  of  herself  or  her  sister  separately. 
The  two  became  one  identity — "Me  an'  Alius," — and  all 
was  peace.  Little  Patsy  was  their  idol.  However  busy 
they  were.  Patsy's  frocks  were  always  neatly  washed 
and  ironed;  there  was  always  time  to  take  Patsy  for  a 
walk ;  it  is  even  believed  that  Patsy  had  a  charm  which 
loosened  the  tongue  of  the  silent  Alius  ! 

There  was  some  excitement  in  the  family  when  it  was 


96  A  DREAM   OF   BLUE   ROSES 

discovered  that  Me  an'  Alius  had  a  young  man.  As 
he  appeared  regularly  every  Sunday  afternoon,  and 
walked  with  which  ever  of  them  happened  to  be  "off" 
that  day,  it  was  impossible  to  gather  upon  which 
charmer  he  bestowed  the  larger  part  of  his  attention. 
He  seemed  equally  pleased  to  see  either  Me  or  Alius. 

"We  walks  with  him,"  explained  the  speaking  partner, 
"as  it's  useful  to  have  a  young  man  for  Sundays.  It 
gives  a  sort  of  standin'  to  have  a  young  man  for  Sun- 
days. But  we  don't  'old  with  'avin'  of  'im  hangin' 
round  week-days,  and  he  knows  it.  Not  but  what  he's 
a  most  respectable  young  man,  one  of  them  savin'  sort 
as  makes  the  best  husbands.  Not  one  to  spend  money 
— he  ain't  never  given  me  an'  Alius  more  than  a  bookay 
of  flowers  in  his  life — not  even  some  trifle  in  the  drapery 
line,  which  might  have  come  cheap  to  him,  seeing'  it's 
in  his  way  of  business." 

A  most  respectable  young  man  he  certainly  seemed. 
Punctual  both  at  his  daily  work  and  at  his  weekly 
assignation. 

All  the  party  had  seen  him  at  different  times,  either 
when  waiting  for  his  young  woman  or  when  bringing 
her  home  again.  It  sometimes  appeared  to  them  that 
he  stood  a  little  in  awe  of  Me  an'  Alius,  but  that  might 
have  been  only  fancy.  He  was  a  thin  young  man  of 
medium  height,  with  a  pointed  nose,  and  a  chin  that 
receded  to  almost  vanishing-point,  thereby  causing  his 
profile  to  resemble  that  of  a  teapot.  He  invariably 
wore  a  dark  suit  and  a  very  high  collar  over  a  blue  and 
white  spotted  tie.  His  hair  was  longer  than  the  fashion 
which  prevailed  among  the  youth  of  St.  Ethel's  de- 
manded; it  is  suspected  that  Me  an'  Alius  thought  it 
lent  him  a  poetic  air.  His  name  was  Spriggins,  and 
he  was  a  constant  joy  to  Patsy,  who  watched  eagerly  for 
his  arrival  on  Sundays. 

Barbara  had  been  welcomed  most  warmly  by  IVle  an' 
Alius,  or,  rather,  by  the  speaking  partner.  "Me  an' 
Alius  are  very  glad  to  see  you,  miss,"  she  said.  "It'll 
do  the  mistress  good  to  have  some  one  to  speak  to.  It'll 
take  her  out  of  herself,   like.     The  way  she  keeps  on 


ST.   ETHEL'S  97 

beats  me  !  Tap,  tapping  on  that  machine  half  the  night, 
after  bein'  on  the  run  all  day,  and  comin'  down  looking 
that  'oiler-eyed  in  the  morning — and  master,  too,  it'll 
be  more  cheerful  like  for  him  havin'  a  visitor.  Just 
you  ask  for  anything  you  want :  Me  an'  Alius  will  be 
pleased  to  oblige." 

An  incident  happened  about  a  week  after  Barbara's 
arrival,  which  established  her  firmly  and  for  ever  in 
the  good  graces  of  Me  an'  Alius.  About  six  o'clock  one 
evening,  she  chanced  to  enter  the  kitchen  in  search  of 
something,  only  to  discover  an  all-prevailing  air  of 
tragedy.  Alius  was  crouching  in  a  chair  with  an  apron 
over  her  head,  sobbing  loudly,  while  her  sister,  standing 
in  the  centre  of  the  small  apartment,  was  expressing  her 
views  on  the  situation  in  heated  terms. 

"What  is  the  matter?"  Barbara  asked. 

"  It's  a  shame  !  a  right  down  shame,  I  call  it,  that  I  do  ! 
It's  all  that  cat !  I'd  like  to  roast  it !  "  she  said  venom- 
ously. "Me  an'  Alius  was  upstairs  layin'  that  bit  of 
carpet,  and  the  fish  for  master's  supper  was  'ere  on  the 
table,  egged  and  bread-crumbed  and  all,  as  pretty  a  little 
sole  as  ever  I  saw,  and  she  must  needs  leave  the  door 
open,  invitin'  of  that  cat  to  come  in,  I  call  it !  " 

For  once  Alius  sp>oke.  "I  thought  the  door  was 
shut,"  she  sobbed. 

"And  who  paid  you  to  think?"  demanded  her  sister, 
with  withering  scorn.  "An'  now  whatever  we'll  do  for 
master's  supper,  I  don't  know.  A  sole,  too,  a  thing 
he  can't  have  more'n  once  in  a  blue  moon,  bein'  that 
expensive." 

"  Have  you  any  eggs  ?  "  suggested  Barbara. 

"  Heggs !  "  repeated  the  girl  in  a  tone  of  despair. 
"What  is  heggs?  'E's  had  'em  boiled,  'e's  had  'em 
poached,  'e's  had  'em  scrambled,  and  'e's  'ad  'em  beat, 
over  and  over  again,  till  it  makes  wonder  he  can  bear 
to  'ear  a  cock  crow  !  And  what  more  to  do  with  an 
egg  except  wait  till  it's  a  chicken,  I  don't  know." 

"But  I  do,"  said  Barbara  gaily.  "Come  along,  and 
I'll  show  you.  I  want  a  pan  and  butter,  and  a  tiny 
piece  of  onion  and  two  eggs." 

H 


98  A  DREAM   OF   BLUE   ROSES 

"Two?"  asked  Me  an'  Alius  doubtfully. 

"Yes,  two;  we'll  be  extravagant  for  once.  Now  put 
them  all  ready  on  the  table.  I'll  dress  early  and  come 
down  five  minutes  before  supper,  and  you'll  see." 

And  see  they  did.  An  omelette  of  which  even  Melanie 
might  have  been  proud !  And  on  many  subsequent 
occasions  were  Me  an'  Alius  instructed  in  the  art  of 
French  cookery,  to  their  own  satisfaction,  and  to  that  of 
the  rest  of  the  party. 


CHAPTER    XII 


CONFIDENCES 


"  The  rose  and  the  thorn,  sorrow  and  gladness,  are  linked  together." 

Saadi. 

"Rome  was  not  built  in  a  day."  Patsy,  her  elbows 
well  squared,  and  her  fingers  very  inky,  traced  the  words 
slowly  in  a  large  and  wobbling  writing.  Her  little  face 
was  flushed,  her  golden  hair  tousled,  and  her  brows 
wrinkled  with  anxiety. 

"That's  twice,"  she  announced  wearily  at  the  end  of  a 
line. 

"Only  three  times  more,"  said  Barbara  encouragingly, 
"and  then  you  will  have  finished." 

"'More  haste  less  speed,'  was  much  more  easier," 
said  the  child;  "I  wonder  what  the  next  page  will  be. 
T.O. " 

" '  To-morrow  never  comes, '  "  read  Barbara ;  "  but 
never  mind  that,  you  get  on  with  to-day's  task." 

"That's  rediklus,"  declared  Patsy  decidedly.  "  'Cause 
to-morrow  is  to-day  when  it  comes.  Now  there's  a 
nasty  great  blot.     Oh,  dear  !  " 

The  mischief  repaired  she  resumed  her  writing  for  a 
minute,  and  then  asked  thoughtfully,  "Does  some  one 
have  to-morrow  before  we  do  ?  and  do  they  use  to-day 
after  we  have  done  with  it  ?  I  should  like  to  know,  but 
then  to-day  is  yesterday  after  we  have  done  with  it ;  it  is 
all  very  puzzling,  I  must  ask  Daddy." 

"Yes,"  agreed  Barbara,  "you  ask  Daddy.  Now  go 
on,  Patsy  dear." 

The  house  was  very  quiet.  The  faint  click  of  a  type- 
writer came  through  the  closed  door  of  the  next  room, 
where  Molly  was  working  at  Dick's  dictation.  Through 
the  open  window  came  the  droning  voice  of  Me  an' 
H2  99 


100  A  DREAM   OF   BLUE   ROSES 

Alius,  singing  to   an  obbligato  of  splashing  and   the 
clattering  of  dishes — 

"  Love,  Hi  am  lonely,  years  are  so  long, 
Hi  want  you  only,  you  and  yer  song.' 

"Rome  was  not  built  in  a  day."  Barbara  peeped 
over  Patsy's  shoulder  and  sighed.  For  the  words  had 
an  inward  significance  also  to  her,  her  Rome  seemed  to 
take  so  long  in  building  !  She  had  now  been  a  month 
at  the  White  House,  and  seemed  no  nearer  obtaining  a 
post  than  she  had  been  on  her  arrival.  For  the  first 
fortnight  she  had  acted  on  Dick's  advice,  and  confident 
in  the  hope  that  something  would  turn  up,  had  enjoyed 
every  day  as  it  came,  serenely  cheerful  and  gay  of  heart. 
But,  alas  !  although,  as  Molly  expressed  it,  there  had 
been  "nibbles,"  no  success  had  up  to  the  present  moment 
crowned  their  united  efforts  to  obtain  a  situation. 

One  lady  had  required  a  knowledge  of  drawing, 
another  of  Latin  and  so  on,  all  seemed  to  demand  more 
than  she  could  offer,  and  the  thought  of  the  numbers  of 
applicants  she  had  seen  in  London  began  to  haunt  Bar- 
bara. If  so  many  well-equipped  runners  in  the  race 
failed,  what  chance  had  she  ? 

Dick  said  it  was  because  it  was  the  wrong  time  of  year 
— they  must  wait  until  the  Easter  holidays,  then  people 
would  no  doubt  be  making  their  arrangements  for  the 
ensuing  term. 

But  this  was  exactly  what  she  felt  she  could  not  do. 
It  was  true  that  her  kind  friends  urged  her  to  stay,  but 
that  did  not  alter  the  position.  She  had  accepted  their 
hospitality  long  enough,  it  was  time  something  was 
settled.  Perhaps  she  was  demanding  too  much — she 
would  seek  for  employment  in  a  humbler  sphere,  any- 
thing, so  long  as  it  was  honest,  and  she  could  support 
herself. 

During  the  month  of  her  stay  a  real  friendship  had 
ripened  between  Barbara  and  Molly,  coupled  on  the  girl's 
side  with  a  great  admiration.  The  unfailing  cheerful- 
ness, almost  light  heartedness  with  which  the  older 
woman  faced  her  life,  her  great  love  for  her  husband,  her 


CONFIDENCES  101 

devoted  attendance  on  him  and  her  patience  with  all  the 
demands  and  moods  of  her  young  family,  were  quite 
wonderful.  Little  troubles  were  passed  over  as  if  un- 
worthy of  notice — Molly  appeared  to  have  a  perfect 
genius  for  looking  on  the  bright  side.  Love — of  the 
parents  for  each  other  and  their  children,  and  of  the 
children  for  their  parents — was  the  corner-stone  on  which 
their  life  was  built ;  but  Barbara  could  not  but  feel  that 
it  was  on  Molly's  shoulders  that  most  of  the  burden 
rested.  Was  anything  wrong? — "why,  mother  would 
do  it :  ask  mother." 

Dick  was  of  necessity  spared  as  much  as  possible,  his 
health  demanded  it;  Phil  alone  of  the  others  was  old 
enough  to  take  his  share,  and  this  the  lad  did,  nobly  and 
loyally,  turning  every  worry  to  jest,  and  it  was  only  when 
you  got  to  know  him  well  that  you  appreciatet^  the 
sterling  good  sense  under  the  surface  lightness. 

Barbara  had  tried,  during  her  visit,  to  render  any  little 
services  she  could,  such  as  sewing  and  mending  and 
helping  with  Patsy's  lessons;  she  felt  it  impossible  to 
make  any  adequate  return  for  all  the  kindness  and  even 
affection  which  were  showered  upon  her. 

And  during  the  time  occupied  by  Patsy  in  finishing 
her  copy,  the  girl  made  up  her  mind.  She  would  wait 
no  longer,  and  she  would  act  at  once.  Also,  she  would 
say  nothing  of  her  intentions,  for  fear  they  should  be 
over-ruled. 

"That's  done!"  said  Patsy  at  last.  "Now,  may  I 
take  Plain  Jane  out  into  the  garden  ?  " 

"  Is  it  her  turn  to-day  ?  "  asked  Barbara,  smiling. 

"  No ;  it's  Abracadabra's  really,  but  I  am  so  fond  of 
Jane,  'cause  she's  so  plain  that  nobody  loves  her  but 
me  !  " 

"Oh,  my  sweet,  have  you  finished?"  said  Molly, 
coming  into  the  room,  "have  you  done  your  copy  quite 
neatly  ?  " 

"Well,  it  might  be  better;  but  then,  again,  it  might 
be  worse,"  answered  Patsy,  after  the  manner  of  Me  an' 
Alius ;  "but  it'll  have  to  do,"  and  with  that  she  made  her 
escape. 


102  A  DREAM   OF   BLUE   ROSES 

"Dick  is  going  to  rest  a  little,"  said  Molly,  with  a 
sigh  as  she  drew  a  basket  of  mending  towards  her  and 
sat  down  to  work.  "  He  does  get  so  dreadfully  tired.  It 
is  the  dictation  that  tries  him  so.  If  only  he  could  write 
even  a  scribble  in  pencil  that  I  could  copy  it  would 
mean  so  much  to  him.  He  says  it  destroys  all  sequence 
of  thought  to  speak  it  out  loud.  He  simply  cannot  get 
used  to  it.  He  has  been  working  much  harder  than  he 
ought  for  the  last  six  months,  and  he  has  only  earned 
twenty  pounds  I  And  with  his  brain  he  could  do 
anything !  " 

She  let  her  work  fall,  and,  throwing  her  arms  across 
the  table,  laid  her  head  down  and  burst  into  tears. 

In  a  moment  Barbara  was  beside  her.  "Don't  cry. 
Please  don't  cry;  whatever  is  the  matter?" 

But  it  seemed  that  for  once  Molly's  fortitude  had  failed 
her,  and  at  last  the  girl  realized  that  it  was  better  to  let 
the  tears  have  their  course. 

"I'm  sorry,"  Molly  murmured  presently,  drying  her 
eyes.  "I  don't  very  often  give  way,  do  I  ?  but  for  once 
I  feel  as  if  I  must  talk  about  it,  you  see ;  I  have  no  one 
to  talk  to,  and  after  a  while  one  feels  as  if  one  must  speak 
or  die.  It  is  all  so  pitiful.  Dr.  Watson  told  me  yester- 
day that  Dick  ought  to  go  to  some  German  baths,  I  for- 
get the  name  of  the  place ;  that  the  treatment  did  wonders 
for  cases  like  his.  I  think  he  thought  that  I  was  heart- 
less and  that  I  wasn't  paying  any  attention  to  what  he 
said,  but  how  could  I  when  I  knew  that  it  was  absolutely 
impossible  ?  Heaven  knows  how  much  it  would  cost, 
and  we  can  only  just  get  along  as  it  is  !  Oh,  Barbara, 
you  don't  know  what  it  is  to  have  the  being  you  love 
best  in  the  world  suffering  horribly,  and  not  to  be  able 
to  give  him  what  he  ought  to  have." 

"  Is  there  no  one  who  could  help  ? "  asked  Barbara 
gently. 

"I  think  his  brother  might  do  something,  he  is  quite 
well  off.  He  did  help  us  at  the  time  of  Dick's  accident, 
but  he  is  one  of  those  men  who  do  kind  things  in  a 
horrid  sort  of  aggressive  way,  and  Dick  was  so  distressed 
about  it.     I  simply  could  not  suggest  it  to  him  again. 


CONFIDENCES  108 

And  then  there  are  the  children  !  Sweet  little  Patsy  is 
all  right,  a  child  of  that  age  is  happy  anywhere,  and 
thank  God  we  have  enough  to  feed  them ;  but  the  boys — 
Phil  is  so  good,  so  cheerful  and  so  uncomplaining,  but 
what  prospects  has  he  in  that  office  ?  Absolutely  none  ! 
He  has  given  up  his  riding  and  his  golf  and  all  his 
pleasures,  he  never  even  mentions  them,  and  yet  I  know 
well  enough  how  keenly  he  feels  it.  It  isn't  quite  so 
bad  for  Lance,  he  has  a  strong  nature  and  doesn't  mind 
knocks,  but  that  school  is  the  worst  thing  for  Tony.  He 
is  over-sensitive  and  rather  inclined  to  be  touchy,  and  he 
is  losing  all  his  nice  disposition.  But  there,  we  won't 
go  on  with  the  list  of  bothers,"  she  added,  with  deter- 
mined cheerfulness.  "What  must  you  think  of  me, 
grumbling  like  this?  " 

"  I  think  you  are  wonderful,"  said  Barbara  truthfully. 
"You  always  seem  as  happy  as  if  you  hadn't  a  care  in 
the  world." 

"  Women  have  to  do  a  good  deal  of  pretending,"  said 
Molly  simply,  "especially  wives  and  mothers.  Bar- 
bara," she  added  suddenly,  with  a  complete  change  of 
voice,  "do  you  think  it  very  wrong  to  wish — almost  to 
pray  that  some  one  may  die  ?  " 

"What  do  you  mean?"  asked  Barbara  in  astonish- 
ment. 

"I  must  tell  you.  Dick  would  be  angry  if  he  knew; 
he  never  will  speak  of  it,  but — I  don't  think  I  could  bear 
it  if  there  wasn't  a  hope  that  some  day  things  would  be 
different." 

"  Money  do  you  mean  ?  " 

Molly  nodded.  "You  see,  Dick  has  an  old  relation, 
quite  a  distant  cousin  who  is  well  off;  he  has  a  large 
property  in  the  next  county,  and  when  he  dies  Dick  will 
be  the  next  heir — at  least  he  is  by  law.  The  old  man  is 
fearfully  eccentric,  almost  mad,  I  believe;  he  wanders 
about  all  over  the  world,  and  no  one  ever  knows  where 
he  is.  The  property,  Brook  Stretton  is  the  name  of  it, 
is  in  fearfully  bad  repair,  and  the  house  almost  falling 
down,  I  believe. 

"  He  used  to  come  home  once  a  year  on  purpose  to  wind 


104  A  DREAM  OF  BLUE   ROSES 

a  certain  clock,  but,  I  believe,  he  doesn't  even  do  that 
now.  I  have  never  seen  him,  and  I  don't  think  Dick 
has  either.  His  sister  told  me  about  it  years  ago.  Of 
course  he  says  it  is  all  nonsense — that  the  old  wretch 
may  have  been  married  for  years,  and  have  a  large  family 
for  all  any  one  knows,  but  I  cannot  give  up  hope. 
Barbara,  do  you  wonder  at  my  wishing  he  might  die  ? 
An  old  man  who  cares  so  little  for  life  that  he  lets  the 
old  home  fall  about  his  ears  !  Once  when  he  was  at  home 
one  of  the  cottagers  came  to  him  and  asked  if  his  roof 
might  be  repaired,  as  he  said  the  rain  came  right  in  on 
to  the  bed  where  the  children  slept,  and  all  old  Brook 
answered  was  that  ventilation  was  healthy  !  I  believe 
at  Brook  Stretton  itself  there  are  baths  in  the  bedrooms 
placed  all  ready  to  catch  the  water  that  runs  through 
the  roof  ! 

"Honestly,  believe  me,  I  don't  want  it  for  myself! 
I  should  be  as  happy  as  the  day  is  long  in  this  little 
house  if  only  Dicky  were  strong  and  we  had  enough 
money  to  give  the  boys  a  good  start  and  for  a  few 
pleasures.  Every  day  I  look  in  the  paper,  and  I  say  to 
myself,  *  Old  Brook  may  be  dead  !  '  and  every  day  I 
think,  '  Oh  God,  how  long?  '  It  is  Dick's  health  and 
the  means  to  obtain  it  I  ask  for.  But — it  will  come  some 
day,  I  know  it ;  there  is  no  harm  in  hoping.  Here  I  sit, 
putting  a  patch  in  Tony's  trousers  or  something  of  the 
kind,  and  hoping — hoping.  Do  you  know,  Barbara,  it's 
very  silly,  but  one  thing  above  all  others  is  to  me  the 
hardest  to  bear." 

"What  is  that?  "  asked  Barbara. 

Molly  laughed  with  an  attempt  at  her  usual  gaiety. 
"Now  you  are  not  to  laugh,  I  won't  have  you  laugh! 
I  know  it  is  most  absurd,  but  I  really  must  tell  you. 
They  always  say  that  it  is  the  last  straw  that  breaks  the 
camel's  back,  and  my  last  straw  is — Dick's  beard  !  " 

"  What  do  you  mean  ?  "  Barbara  smiled  in  spite  of  all 
her  efforts  to  be  grave. 

"  Well,  you  know  that  my  Dick  used  to  be  the  hand- 
somest man  I  ever  saw — his  profile  was  quite  perfect. 
I  don't  mean  to  say  that  I  loved  him  for  his  looks  !     I* 


CONFIDENCES  105 

isn't  that,  but  I  did  love  to  look  at  him.  He  has  such  a 
beautiful  mouth  and  chin,  and  now  that  he  has  to  wear 
that  dreadful  beard  he  is  quite  changed.  You  see,  he 
can't  shave  himself,  he  won't  let  me  try,  and  honestly  I 
think  I  should  be  terrified,  and  of  course  we  can't  pay 
a  barber  to  come  here  every  day  to  save  my  feelings. 
But,  somehow,  that  beard  seems  the  culminating  pomt 
of  everything.  It  seems  to  be  the  materialization  of  all 
our  troubles.  Isn't  it  perfectly  ridiculous  ?  But,  do  you 
know,  whenever  I  dream  I  always  dream  that  everything 
has  come  right,  and  Dicky  is  running  or  dancing  (he 
used  to  dance  so  perfectly),  or  standing  tall  and  upright 
as  he  used  to  be,  with  a  beautiful  clean-shaven  face ! 
You  may  laugh  now,  as  much  as  you  like,  I  laugh  my- 
self, because  it  is  such  an  absurd  trifle,  but  my  whole  life 
seems  overshadowed  by  that  beard." 

"  It  really  is  a  very  nice  one,"  said  Barbara,  joining  in 
Molly's  laughter. 

"I  don't  care,"  she  said  stubbornly.  "It  is  all  I  can 
do  not  to  go  for  it  with  a  pair  of  scissors." 

"That  wouldn't  improve  it,  would  it?" 

"No,  I  suppose  not.  Some  day,  when  all  the  clouds 
have  rolled  away,  I  shall  write  a  book  called  The 
Tragedy  of  a  Beard.  There  are  some  people,  chiefly  in 
America,  I  believe,  who  say  that  if  you  only  want  a 
thing  badly  enough,  and  concentrate  all  your  thoughts 
upon  it  sufficiently,  that  you  are  sure  to  get  it.  I  know 
a  woman  who  thought  solidly  for  two  hours  a  day  about 
a  motor-car.  She  got  one  in  the  end,  but  I  believe  it 
was  only  that  her  husband  gave  her  one  because  he  was 
so  sick  of  seeing  her  sitting  like  an  Egyptian  mummy, 
gazing  inwardly  at  a  motor-car." 

"She  got  it,  that  was  the  main  point,"  said  Barbara. 

Molly  nodded.  "That  was  the  main  point.  I  shall 
concentrate  upon  Dick's  beard.  I  wonder  if  it  would 
come  off  I  But  no,  on  second  thoughts  I  don't  think  I 
will — his  hair  might  come  off  too,  and  he  would  be  worse 
bald !  What  absolute  nonsense  I  am  talking !  My 
dear,  thank  you  for  listening.  You  have  acted  as  a  sort 
of  safety  valve.     I  have  blown  off  plenty  of  steam." 


106  A  DREAM  OF  BLUE   ROSES 

Barbara  kissed  her  affectionately.  "Thank  you  for 
telHng  me,"  she  said.  "I,  too,  will  concentrate,  as  you 
call  it,  but  only  on  brighter  days  for  you." 

"Perhaps  on  the  whole  that  would  be  safer,"  said 
Molly  gaily. 


CHAPTER    XIII 

MRS.    SEPTIMUS    WAGHORN 

"  Queer  cattle  is  women  to  deal  with  ? 
Lord  bless  ye  !  yer  honour  !  They  are  ! 
I'd  sooner  be  faced  by  ten  navvies, 
Than  tackle  a  woman,  by  far  ! '' 

G.  R.  Sims. 

Three  days  later  Barbara  Claudia  Vincent  stepped  out 
of  the  gate  of  the  "White  House,"  and  walked  quickly 
down  the  road  in  the  company  of  a  shock-headed  boy, 
who  wheeled  her  trunk  in  a  wheelbarrow. 

In  her  heart  were  mingled  feelings  of  regret  and 
triumph,  regret  for  the  kind  friends  she  was  leaving, 
and  triumph  because  at  last  she  had  obtained  the  first 
and  most  immediately  important  of  her  desires.  For 
she  was  on  her  way  to  a  situation  !  Not  that  it  was 
anything  very  wonderful  in  the  way  of  a  start,  but  she 
would  be  earning  something,  that  was  the  great  con- 
sideration !  It  had  come  about  in  this  way :  having 
decided  that  it  was  impossible  to  wait  any  longer  for 
the  suitable  post  which  failed  to  present  itself,  and  that 
it  was  her  duty  to  take  anything  that  she  could  find  at 
the  earliest  opportunity,  she  had  lost  no  time  in  carrying 
out  a  certain  plan,  which  had  for  some  little  time  been 
simmering  in  her  mind,  and  that  very  afternoon  had 
sought  the  aid  of  the  local  registry  office.  Here  she 
had  been  fortunate  enough  to  interview  a  lady  who  had 
engaged  her  services !  In  exactly  what  capacity  it  was 
difficult  to  say — hardly  that  of  governess,  for  the  lady, 
by  name  Mrs.  Septimus  Waghorn,  had  been  careful  to 
state  that  her  son,  aged  nine  years,  received  his  education 
at  a  superior  day  school  in  the  vicinity  (she  had  seemed 
anxious  to  impress  upon  Barbara  the  superiority  of  the 
scholastic  establishment),  and  merely  required  a  little 

107 


108  A  DREAM   OF   BLUE   ROSES 

assistance  with  the  tasks  which  he  brought  home  for 
preparation.  Light  occupations,  such  as  needlework 
and  dusting  the  drawing-room,  had  been  specified,  but 
principally  it  appeared  that  Mrs.  Septimus  Waghorn 
desired  companionship.  Her  husband  was  absent  nearly 
all  day,  she  wished  to  have  some  one  agreeable  to  talk 
to,  who  would  render  her  assistance  generally  in  the 
house.  This  seemed  to  Barbara  to  be  just  the  kind  of 
post  for  which  she  was  suited,  and  she  had  returned  to 
the  "White  House"  in  excellent  spirits  to  acquaint  Molly 
with  the  arrangement. 

But,  rather  to  her  disappointment,  neither  Molly  nor 
Dick  welcomed  the  tidings  with  the  warmth  she  had 
expected.  It  seemed  that  there  were  social  distinctions 
in  England  at  which  she  had  never  even  guessed. 

"Who  was  Mrs.  Septimus  Waghorn?  They  had 
never  heard  of  her !  What  sort  of  person  was  she  ? 
Had  she  engaged  Barbara  without  any  sort  of  references 
or  inquiries  ?  It  seems  a  very  strange  thing  to  do !  " 
To  which  Barbara  had  replied  that  she  was  at  present 
staying  with  Mrs.  Richard  Arkwright,  and  that  had 
seemed  to  be  sufficient  reference.  Mrs.  Waghorn  had 
asked  no  further  question. 

Phil  was  able  to  inform  them  that  though  personally 
he  had  never  met  the  lady,  he  had  on  several  occasions 
spoken  to  her  husband,  who  was  the  manager  of  a 
tannery,  Downhill. 

"Downhill!"  cried  Molly.  "You  can't  go  and  live 
Downhill  I  " 

"Why  not?"  asked  Barbara  innocently.  It  seemed 
to  her  that  the  exact  whereabouts  of  her  prospective 
employment  was  a  matter  of  small  importance. 

Molly  had  not  waited  to  reply,  but  had  hastened  to 
write  a  note  to  a  friend,  Mr.  Poole,  the  Vicar  of  St. 
Ethel's,  begging  for  any  particulars  he  could  give  her 
of  Mrs.  Septimus  Waghorn,  her  social  position  and 
respectability. 

One  of  the  boys  had  been  dispatched  with  it  on  a 
bicycle,  and  had  speedily  returned  with  the  answer. 
Mr.  Poole  was  able  to  say  that  Mrs.  Septimus  Waghorn 


MRS.    SEPTIMUS   WAGHORN  109 

("such  a  name,"  ejaculated  Molly)  was  a  person  of  un- 
doubted respectability  and  of  fair  position,  commercially, 
if  not  socially.  He  only  knew  them  slightly,  as  they 
attended  chapel  and  not  church.  He  had  never  heard 
anything  to  the  detriment  of  either  Mr.  or  Mrs.  Wag- 
horn,  and  he  believed  them  to  be  worthy  people. 

"I  don't  like  the  idea  of  your  going  to  people  whc^- 
are  not  gentlefolk,"  said  Dick.  "You  cannot  tell  what 
you  are  letting  yourself  in  for." 

"They  will  give  me  twenty  pounds  a  year,"  replied 
Barbara  contentedly;  "that  is  quite  a  lot  of  money.  I 
can  save  out  of  that." 

"You'll  be  very  clever,  if  you  do !  " 

"I  am  sure  I  can,  and  I  don't  think  I  shall  mind 
Mrs.  Waghorn  not  being  quite  what  you  would  call  a 
lady.  Some  women  who  are  bourgeoise  are  very  kind. 
Please  do  not  try  to  dissuade  me  !  It  is  very  sweet  of 
you,  but,  you  see,  I  must  do  something,  and  it  is  a 
start." 

So,  finding  that  she  was  quite  determined,  they  made 
no  attempt  to  argue  with  her  any  further,  but  insisted 
that  she  should  promise  to  return  to  them  without  hesita- 
tion at  any  time,  should  the  place  prove  unsuitable. 

Barbara  reflected  on  the  gist  of  their  remarks,  but 
would  not  allow  herself  to  be  daunted  by  them.  After 
all,  she  could  put  up  with  small  inconveniences,  and, 
kind  as  they  were,  neither  of  them  realized  that  her 
capital,  which  it  will  be  remembered  had  never  been 
excessive,  had  by  this  time  dwindled  to  a  microscopic 
trifle.  In  fact,  she  calculated,  as  she  walked  along, 
that  by  the  time  she  paid  the  boy  the  shilling  pre- 
arranged by  Me  an'  Alius  for  the  transport  of  her  lug- 
gage, her  remaining  wealth  would  amount  to  exactly 
four  shillings  and  fivepence-halfpenny — the  five-pound 
note,  which  she  held  in  trust,  excluded,  be  it  understood. 

Even  if  everything  w'as  not  exactly  what  she  wished, 
she  must  endeavour  at  all  costs  to  keep  this  employment. 
She  was  prepared  to  do  her  very  best. 

It  was  a  lovely  day,  glowing  with  bright  sunshine, 
the  sort  of  day  when  hopes  are   high  and  confidence 


110  A   DREAM   OF   BLUE   ROSES 

wins  an  easy  victory  over  doubts  and  fears,  routing  them 
completely,  wiping  them  from  the  field. 

The  boy  set  down  his  barrow  two  or  three  times,  and 
passed  a  gaudy  cotton  handkerchief  over  his  brow, 
before  resuming  his  progress.  He  was  not  conversa- 
tionally inclined,  making  no  reply  to  Barbara's  sug- 
•gestion  that  she  feared  the  box  was  too  heavy,  so  they 
walked  on  in  silence. 

It  was  a  Monday,  so  the  Market  Square  was  deserted 
as  they  crossed  it  and  turned  to  the  right  down  the  long 
road  which  leads  Downhill.  It  was  a  broad  road  and 
easy  of  descent,  as  all  roads  proverbially  are  which  lead 
in  that  direction.  In  the  days  of  Sir  Jeremy  Knox, 
and  his  wordy  warfare  with  the  railway  company,  the 
valley,  which  is  now  called  Downhill,  must  have  been 
a  pleasant  spot.  A  stream  wanders  through  it,  or  rather 
did  wander,  a  shallow,  serpentine  stream,  famous  in  old 
days  for  its  brown-speckled  trout,  but  now  it  doesn't 
wander  any  more,  for  it  is  dammed  and  controlled,  and 
harnessed  to  utility,  and  supplies  the  motive  power  for 
various  "works." 

But  some  of  the  old  willows  which  fringed  its  banks 
are  still  standing,  one  especially,  hoary  and  bent  with 
age,  droops  its  head  over  the  garden  of  what  is  called 
the  "Mill  House,"  droops  its  head  as  though  in  regret  for 
the  vanished  past,  for  nature  disturbed,  for  wild  fowl 
and  river  folk  ruthlessly  expelled,  and,  above  all,  for 
departed  peace.  For  all  day  long,  and  for  five  and  a 
half  days  in  the  week,  the  air  rings  with  the  steady  hum 
of  engines  and  the  whirr  of  machinery. 

Also,  on  some  days,  neither  so  few  nor  so  far  between 
as  might  be  desired,  a  nauseous  and  penetrating  odour 
pervades  the  atmosphere,  and  reeking  smoke  belches  out 
of  the  great  chimney,  obscuring  all  the  landscape. 

The  "Mill  House"  itself  is  a  small,  square,  stuccoed 
residence,  of  unredeemed  ugliness,  built  in  the  days 
when  architects  seemed  to  have  relied  entirely  upon  a 
chest  of  drawers  as  their  model,  square  and  uncom- 
promising, with  the  windows  where  the  handles  ought 
to  have  been.     It  stands  a  few  yards  back  from  the  road, 


MRS.   SEPTIMUS   WAGHORN  111 

and  is  divided  from  it  by  a  strip  of  rough  grass  and  some 
iron  railings.  Just  as  this  time  of  year  the  laburnum, 
which  hangs  rather  feebly  over  the  gate,  was  in  blossom, 
giving  the  house  a  more  cheerful  appearance  than  it 
possessed  at  other  seasons. 

Barbara  bade  the  boy  wait  for  a  few  minutes,  and  rang 
the  bell.     She  heard  it  tinkling  in  the  distance,  but  no* 
one  came  in  answer  to  the  summons,  so  presently  she 
rang  again,  with  more  vigour  this  time. 

She  had  been  told  that  Mrs.  Waghorn  kept  only  one 
servant,  and  she  had  imagined  her  something  after  the 
style  of  'Toinette — good  old  'Toinette,  in  her  spotless 
apron  and  stiff  goffered  cap,  but  the  reality  in  no  way 
resembled  her  fancy,  for  after  another  perceptible  pause 
the  door  was  opened  by  a  slatternly  girl  in  a  dirty  print 
dress.  The  front  of  her  head  was  adorned  with  a 
bristling  row  of  easy  curlers,  and  crowned  by  a  tumbled 
wisp  of  dingy  embroidery,  which  only  extreme  courtesy 
could  have  described  as  a  cap. 

"  Is  Mrs.  Waghorn  at  home  ?  " 

"She's  hout,"  was  the  laconic  reply.  "Are  you  the 
'elp  ?  " 

"  I  beg  your  pardon  ?  "  said  Barbara,  who  missed  the 
point  of  the  question. 

"Are  you  the  'elp  she's  expecting?" 

"I  am  Miss  Vincent." 

"Oh!  you  har,  har  you?  You  can  come  in.  Left 
attic  on  top's  yours."  She  waved  a  grimy  hand  in  the 
direction  of  the  staircase,  and  disappeared  into  the  back 
region. 

After  some  hesitation  Barbara  decided  that  the  first 
thing  to  do  was  to  collect  her  trunk.  It  had  better  be 
taken  to  the  left  attic  on  top  !  There  seemed  to  be  no 
one  about,  and  the  maid  showed  no  signs  of  returning, 
so  she  ran  upstairs,  and  discovered  what  she  supposed 
was  her  room.  It  was  small  and  rather  dark,  but  was 
evidently  prepared  for  her  reception,  clean  sheets  on  the 
bed,  and  a  clean  towel  on  the  wash-stand  told  her  as 
much.  She  ran  down  again,  and  directed  the  boy  to 
carry  up  her  trunk.     He  seemed  to  find  some  difficulty 


112  A  DREAM   OF  BLUE   ROSES 

in  doing  so,  and  it  ended  in  their  carrying  it  up  the 
stairs  between  them.  This  safely  accomplished,  she 
paid  and  dismissed  him.  Then  she  took  off  her  coat 
and  hat,  and  laid  them  in  a  cupboard,  which  smelt 
deplorably  of  mice,  and  finally  stood  waiting,  nervously 
uncertain  of  what  her  next  move  ought  to  be.  She  was 
painfully  anxious  to  make  no  mistakes  in  her  new  sphere, 
but  at  the  moment  she  could  do  nothing,  she  hadn't  the 
slightest  idea  what  her  duties  were. 

ft  was,  however,  not  more  than  a  few  minutes  before 
she  heard  a  voice  outside  her  door  calling  her  name. 
She  opened  at  once,  to  find  Mrs.  Waghorn  standing  on 
the  threshold,  accompanied  by  a  small  boy. 

"I  am  sorry  I  wasn't  in  to  meet  you,"  she  said  fret- 
fully. "I've  been  as  rushed  as  never  was,  this  morning. 
This  is  Clarence.  Say  '  Good-morning  '  to  the  lady, 
ducky." 

Clarence  was  a  slim  boy,  with  very  red  cheeks,  and 
large,  rather  protruding,  light-blue  eyes.  His  head  was 
covered  with  brown  curls,  which  hung  in  corkscrews  far 
below  his  shoulders.  Rather  a  nice-looking  little  boy, 
Barbara  thought.  He  was  dressed  in  a  dark-blue  tunic 
and  knickers,  with  a  wide  and  torn  lace  collar,  and  brown 
shoes  and  socks. 

"  Come,  say  '  Good-morning  '  to  the  lady,"  repeated 
his  mother  coaxingly,  as  the  child  hung  back.  "He  is 
so  shy." 

Thus  urged,  the  bashful  Clarence  peeped  round  his 
mother,  and  opening  his  mouth,  put  out  his  tongue  to 
its  utmost  limit. 

"He's  so  high-spirited,"  said  his  fond  parent 
apologetically.  "He'll  get  to  know  you  soon.  But 
come  along  down,  and  I'll  show  you  round  before  Mr. 
Waghorn  comes  in  to  dinner." 

Mrs.  Waghorn  was  a  woman  of  about  forty,  getting, 
as  she  herself  described  it,  rather  full  in  the  figure. 
She  was  elaborately  attired  in  a  red  silk  blouse,  with 
short  sleeves  and  a  very  low  neck. 

She  preceded  Barbara  down  the  stairs,  pouring  out  a 
stream  of  words  in  a  high-pitched,  complaining  tone. 


MRS.    SEPTIMUS   WAGHORN  118 

"\yherever  is  that  girl  Violet?  She's  never  put  up 
those  clean  window  curtains,  as  I  told  her  !  The  trouble 
I  have  with  servants  is  awful.  They  are  so  independent, 
they  won't  be  spoken  to.  Here's  the  drawing-room. 
Miss  Vincent.  It  hasn't  been  dusted  yet.  I  haven't  had 
a  moment  to  call  my  own,  and  you  won't  catch  Violet 
doing  anything  that  isn't  rightly  her  own  work.  There, 
Clarence,  you  run  along,  ducky,  and  don't  you  be  late 
for  dinner.  Look  at  the  dust !  Did  you  ever  see  any- 
thing Hke  it?" 

"  Would  you  like  me  to  do  it  at  once  ?  "  asked  Bar- 
bara. "Will  you  tell  me  where  to  find  a  dustpan  and 
dusters  ?  " 

The  drawing-room  was,  in  Barbara's  opinion,  the  most 
hideous  room  she  had  ever  seen.  On  the  floor  was  a 
bright-green  carpet  with  a  pattern  of  crimson  roses 
upon  it.  The  wall-paper  was  yellow,  festooned  in  pink 
poppies,  while  above  it  was  a  frieze,  where  life-sized 
swallows  disported  themselves  in  airy  flight.  A  suite 
of  furniture  was  upholstered  in  a  shade  of  green  velvet, 
which  clashed  horribly  with  the  carpet,  but  the  chief 
feature  of  the  room  was  the  varied  assortment  of  knick- 
knacks,  with  which  every  available  place  was  crowded. 
On  a  table  in  front  of  the  window  stood  an  erection  of 
bamboo,  supporting  half-a-dozen  or  more  small  brown 
jars,  of  the  kind  in  which  cream  is  generally  sold,  in 
varying  positions,  the  whole  was  draped  with  faded 
yellow  ribbon,  bows  of  which  ornamented  the  neck  of 
each  jar.  On  either  side  of  the  table  stood  a  drain-pipe 
gaily  painted  a  brilliant  blue,  holding  a  large  bunch  of 
pampas  grass,  which  positively  showered  dust  as  Barbara 
touched  it. 

On  the  mantelpiece  were  two  yellow  china  cats,  with 
very  long  necks,  one  sporting  a  bandage  over  one  eye, 
giving  it  a  most  rakish  expression.  Glass  vases  filled 
with  dried  grasses,  and  a  heterogeneous  collection  of 
Christmas  cards,  Japanese  fans,  and  odd  little  insects, 
spiders  and  crabs,  made  out  of  painted  cotton  wool  and 
wire.  Another  feature  of  this  notable  apartment  was  a 
photograph  of  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Waghorn,  which  occupied 


114  A   DREAM   OF   BLUE   ROSES 

a  prominent  position  on  the  top  of  the  piano.  It  had 
evidently  been  taken  some  years  before,  and  was  framed 
in  peacock-blue  plush,  with  silver  corners.  The  couple 
were  represented  in  a  country  lane,  Mrs.  perched  pre- 
cariously on  the  top  of  a  stile,  gazing  coyly  at  Mr., 
who  stood  beside  her,  leaning  against  a  post  in  a  non- 
chalant attitude,  with  a  foolish  simper  on  his  whiskered 
face. 

Barbara,  armed  with  the  necessary  utensils,  which 
had  been  found  after  some  delay,  started  to  work  with 
a  vigour,  glad  of  definite  occupation  which  promised 
relief  from  the  outpourings  of  Mrs.  Waghorn's  burdened 
mind,  but  she  very  soon  discovered  that  this  was  not 
to  be.  Two  things  the  good  lady  detested,  one  was 
solitude,  the  other  silence.  Regardless  of  the  dust, 
which  was  rising  in  clouds  under  Barbara's  onslaught, 
she  stood  in  the  centre  of  the  room,  moving  her  position 
from  time  to  time  as  it  was  necessary,  but  never  ceasing 
to  talk. 

"Of  course,  you  know  we  haven't  always  lived  here. 
I'm  used  to  London  myself.  This  is  a  dead-alive  hole, 
no  society  whatever.  Of  course,  when  my  husband 
joined  this  business  we  had  to  come  and  live  here,  but 
my  feet  ache  for  the  pavements — they  really  do  I  You 
know  London,  I  suppose?  What  part  have  you  lived 
in  ?  " 

"I  have  always  lived  in  France." 

"Well,  I  never!  Not  really?  I've  never  been  there 
myself,  except  for  a  day's  trip  on  the  Foam  from  Folke- 
stone, but  I've  always  admired  French  fashions. 
Perhaps  you've  got  a  blouse  or  two  I  could  copy, 
although  I  must  say  there  doesn't  seem  much  style  about 
you.  1  suppose  you  can  cut  out?  Why !  here  it  is  ten 
minutes  to  one,  and  the  table  not  even  laid  !  Where  is 
that  girl  Violet  ?  " 

A  moment  later  she  was  calling  in  the  hall,  and 
Barbara  heard  a  violent  altercation  between  mistress  and 
maid,  which  was  interrupted  by  the  advent  of  the  master 
of  the  house,  who  opened  the  front  door  with  his  latch- 
key. 


MRS.    SEPTIMUS   WAGHORN  115 

"Well,  mother,"  he  said,  with  a  nervous  giggle,  "'ow 
are  you  ?  " 

"I'm  busy,  can't  you  see  that  for  yourself?"  was  the 
tart  reply.  "Dinner  isn't  ready,  and  there's  no  saying 
when  it  will  be." 

"What's  'appened  to  the  girl?" 

"What's  happened  to  the  girl?"  repeated  his  wife  in 
tones  of  scathing  correction.  "Nothing,  that  I  know  of. 
She  merely  doesn't  choose  to  do  her  work.  I  can't  do 
everything — how  can  I  ?  " 

"You'd  better  stop  that  now.  Miss  Vincent,"  she 
added,  putting  her  head  into  the  drawing-room.  "You 
can  finish  it  later.     Where's  Clarence?" 

"I  have  not  seen  him,"  said  Barbara,  and  Mrs.  Wag- 
horn  stifled  an  exclamation  of  annoyance. 

Dinner,  when  it  arrived,  proved  better  than  Barbara 
had  expected,  from  the  prevailing  muddle.  A  joint  of 
boiled  mutton  and  caper  sauce,  and  a  suet  pudding. 
Clarence,  who  had  refused  to  accept  his  mother's  invita- 
tion to  "let  Miss  Vincent  wash  your  face  and  hands," 
sat  staring  at  her  with  all  his  eyes,  his  interest  being 
so  keen  that  a  good  deal  of  his  meal  found  its  way  on 
to  the  napkin  which  was  tied  round  his  neck. 

"Know  this  part  of  the  world?"  asked  Mr.  Waghorn 
politely ;  he  paused  in  his  efforts  to  balance  a  straying 
caper  on  his  knife  blade  as  he  spoke.  He  was  exactly 
like  his  portrait,  simper  and  whiskers  and  all. 

"Not  very  well.     I  have  only  been  here  a  short  time." 

"Miss  Vincent  has  lived  in  France,  and  it  is  her  first 
visit  to  England,"  explained  his  wife.  "Don't  slop  your 
food,  Clarence,  ducky.  It's  a  wonder  to  me  that  any 
one  comes  to  this  country.  England  isn't  what  it  used 
to  be." 

"Ah!"  said  Mr.  Waghorn,  with  a  mildly  facetious 
wink,  "I  know  what  you're  up  to,  'usband  'unting, 
that's  what  it  is  !  " 

"Don't  be  a  fool!"  said  his  wife  sharply;  and  he 
subsided  into  silence,  after  a  low  giggle  at  his  own  wit. 

Presently  "Clarence, ducky"  got  down,  in  obedience  to 
his  mother's  command,  to  ring  the  bell.     In  order  to  do 

12 


116  A  DREAM  OF   BLUE   ROSES 

so,  he  passed  behind  Barbara's  chair,  and  deftly  inserted 
two  sticky  fingers  down  the  back  of  her  neck. 

His  parents  made  no  comment,  but  she  made  up  her 
mind  to  have  a  few  words  with  the  young  gentleman 
later. 

"Going  out  this  afternoon?"  inquired  Mr.  Waghorn 
mildly. 

"How  can  I  go  out?  It's  Violet's  day,  and  with 
all  there  is  to  be  done,  and  all  !  I  am  toiling  all  the 
time,  and  no  thanks  at  the  end  of  it." 

After  dinner  Barbara  finished  her  work  in  the  drawing- 
room,  and  then  Mrs.  Waghorn  decreed  that  she  should 
start  some  sewing.  She  fetched  her  work-basket,  and 
on  being  given  a  roll  of  flannelette  and  a  pattern,  felt 
happy  in  the  anticipation  of  a  quiet  afternoon. 

But  it  was  not  to  be !  No  sooner  had  she  sat  down 
than  Mrs.  Waghorn  remembered  she  must  have  a 
crochet  pattern.  "It  was  in  the  drawing-room  cup- 
board." After  a  prolonged  and  unsuccessful  search,  the 
girl  resumed  her  work.  Five  minutes  after  it  was,  "I 
think  you  had  better  go  and  see  what  Clarence  is  doing." 
She  found  him  at  last,  happily  engaged  in  burying  the 
kitten  alive  in  the  back  garden.  Having  rescued  the 
unfortunate  animal,  almost  at  its  last  gasp,  she  returned 
to  Mrs.  Waghorn,  and  ventured  to  point  out  the  cruelty 
of  the  pastime. 

"Well,  never  mind,"  said  the  lady  pettishly,  "he's 
only  a  child,  he  must  have  his  fun  !  I  think  you  had 
better  put  that  work  away,  and  see  about  watering  the 
plants  in  the  greenhouse."  The  greenhouse  was  a  small 
lean-to  next  to  the  dining-room,  and  contained  a  few 
sickly  ferns  and  aspidistras.  After  that  it  was  time  to 
get  the  tea. 

All  the  rest  of  the  day  passed  in  the  same  way,  and 
when  Barbara  finally  reached  the  solitude  of  her  own 
room,  which  was  not  until  very  late  that  night,  she 
realized  that  she  had  not  sat  down  for  ten  minutes  all 
day,  and  yet  had  completed  absolutely  nothing.  She 
was  very  tired,  but  still  undismayed.  No  doubt  things 
would  go  better  when  she  was  used  to  the  life. 


CHAPTER    XIV 


CLARENCE 


"He  was  what  nurses  call  a  limb, 

One  of  those  small  misguided  creatures, 
Who  though  their  intellects  are  dim, 
Are  one  too  many  for  their  teachers." 

Calverley. 

Barbara  came  down  early  the  next  morning,  and  at 
the  foot  of  the  stairs  met  Violet,  who  surveyed  her  from 
head  to  foot  in  lazy,  contemplative  fashion. 

"  Good-morning,"  remarked  Barbara  cheerfully. 

Violet  made  no  attempt  to  let  her  pass,  but  said 
thoughtfully,  "  I  wonder  'ow  long  you'll  stay  I  " 

"Why?" 

"Not  long,  I'll  be  bound.  I've  been  'ere  three  months, 
and  there' ve  been  four  'elps.  I  wouldn't  stand  it  myself, 
only  it  suits  me  plans.  My  young  man,  'e's  in  the 
works,  and,  this  being  adjacent,  it's  convenient  like. 
Now  I'll  just  give  you  a  friendly  word."  Violet  dropped 
her  voice  to  a  confidential  tone.  "You  stand  up  to  'er. 
If  you  don't,  she  will  lead  you  a  dog's  life !  The  first 
few  days  I  was  'ere,  it  was  Voylet  this,  and  Voylet  that, 
same  as  it  was  with  you  yesterday,  till  I  ups  and  gives 
'er  a  piece  of  my  mind.  Put  it  plain,  I  did.  '  I'm  'ere 
to  do  a  bit  o'  cleaning  and  a  bit  o'  cooking,  but  not  to 
stand  your  tantrums,'  says  I.  *  And  since  I  m  speaking, 
I  may  as  well  'ave  you  know  that  I  won't  'ave  no  one 
poking  round  my  kitchen — so  that's  flat !  If  you  don't 
like  it,  you  can  take  my  notice ;  it's  all  the  same  to  me  !  ' 
Of  course  she  didn't,"  added  Violet,  with  a  wink.  "I'm 
a  bit  of  a  cook,  I  am,  and  she'd  just  about  got  sense 
enough  to  know  when  she  was  well  off.  Just  you  stand 
up  to  'er  !  And  it's  the  same  with  that  boy  !  You  *ide 
'im.     You'll  'ave  no  peace  till  you  do !     'E  tried  'is 

117 


118  A  DREAM   OF  BLUE   ROSES 

games  on  me,  till  me  patience  was  fair  wore  out,  and  I 
very  soon  stopped  'em.  I  waited  till  the  first  time  'is  ma 
was  out,  I  did,  and  then  I  put  the  fear  of  me  into  'im 
with  a  stick.  'E  didn't  'alf  catch  it !  I  'avn't  'ad  young 
brothers  without  learning  'ow  to  thrash  'em,  no  fear  !  'E 
don't  show  me  no  more'n  the  tip  of  'is  snub  nose  now  I 
Not  much  !  " 

Barbara  could  not  help  smiling,  and  Violet,  being 
now  wound  up,  continued  her  oration. 

"As  for  Wag'orn,  'e's  a  detile !  "  she  said  scornfully, 
describing  the  master  of  the  house  with  a  word  with  the 
felicitous  wit  of  her  class.  "That's  what  'e  is!  'E's  a 
detile  !    'E  don't  count,  no  more'n  if  he  was  dead  !  " 

This  time  Barbara  laughed  outright;  she  couldn't  help 
it.  She  had  no  desire  to  stand  gossiping,  but  Violet 
blocked  her  way,  intent  on  having  her  say  out. 

"Tell  me  if  you  want  anything,  and  I'll  do  my  best 
for  you,"  she  said  patronizingly;  "but  mind  you're  firm. 
She  was  sweet  enough  yesterday,  but  that  won't  last  no 
more  than  two  shakes  of  a  cat's  tail.  If  once  she  thinks 
she's  got  you,  she'll  give  you  'ell's  delight." 

At  this  moment  a  door  slammed  violently  upstairs, 
and  Violet  returned  hastily  to  her  interrupted  task  of 
whitening  the  front  doorstep. 

An  hour  or  two  later,  Barbara,  happening  to  enter  her 
bedroom,  found  her  dressing-table  stripped  of  all  her 
possessions :  the  little  photograph  of  Petite  M^re,  the 
French  Testament,  which  was  a  valued  relic  of  P^re 
Joseph,  her  brush,  comb,  hairpins,  all  were  gone.  She 
hunted  everywhere,  and  finally  sought  Violet,  who 
grinned  in  reply  to  her  inquiry. 

"You  may  take  your  oath  it's  that  limb,"  she  said 
cheerfully.    "I  should  look  in  the  garden  if  I  was  you." 

"  In  the  garden  ? "  ejaculated  Barbara  in  horrified 
accents. 

"*E's  thrown  'em  out  of  the  window,  that's  what  'e's 
done  I  " 

And,  sure  enough,  there  lay  her  scattered  possessions, 
everything  breakable  in  fragments,  and  the  precious 
book  ruined  by  contact  with   the  damp   gravel   path. 


CLARENCE  119 

Barbara  ruefully  carried  the  remains  into  the  house, 
meeting  Mrs.  Waghorn  on  the  threshold. 

"  Whatever  have  you  been  doing  ?  I  wish  you  would 
come  when  you're  called  !  "  was  that  lady's  greeting. 
"I  don't  pay  you  to  waste  your  time,  and  you  may  as 
well  know  it  first  as  last." 

Barbara  tried  to  explain,  but  was  promptly  cut  short. 
"Now  it's  no  use  complaining  to  me  of  Clarence!  I 
won't  have  it;  I've  enough  to  do  without  listening  to 
your  grumbling.  The  child's  high-spirited,  and  the 
sooner  you  understand  it  the  better.  There's  a  pile  of 
dirty  blouses  up  on  my  bed;  you'd  better  go  and  wash 
them." 

When  Clarence  returned  from  school  at  mid-day, 
Barbara  ventured  to  request  him  not  to  meddle  with 
her  property  again.  She  spoke  kindly,  hoping  to  con- 
ciliate the  child,  but  the  only  answer  he  vouchsafed  was 
a  mute  one,  in  the  form  of  his  thumb  pressed  firmly  to 
his  nose,  with  all  his  fingers  waggling  derisively  in  the 
air. 

The  next  day  she  discovered  her  umbrella  cut  to 
ribbons,  and  the  day  after  that  her  best  pair  of  shoes 
floating  in  a  slimy  pool  at  the  bottom  of  the  garden, 
irretrievably  ruined.  Lessons  were  out  of  the  question, 
even  had  Mrs.  Waghorn  suggested  them,  which  she  did 
not,  for  "Clarence,  ducky"  never  replied  to  any  remark 
of  hers;  in  fact,  never  spoke  to  her,  except  to  peer 
round  corners  at  unexpected  moments,  and  jeer  at  her 
as  "  Froggy  "  ! 

No  arguments  could  move  him ;  to  persuasions  he  was 
deaf.  In  the  morning  she  felt  comparatively  safe  from 
his  persecutions,  but  when  his  short  school  hours  were 
over  Barbara  lived  each  day  in  ever-increasing  appre- 
hension as  to  what  his  next  effort  might  be.  The 
slightest  word  on  her  part  sent  the  child  screaming  to 
his  mother,  and  caused  a  scene.  Barbara  tried  the  plan 
of  taking  no  notice  whatever,  thinking  he  might  tire  of 
the  campaign ;  but  no  !  his  resourcefulness  in  mischief 
merely  increased  day  by  day;  his  ingenuity  in  finding 
fresh  means  of  torment  was  positively  devilish — there 


120  A  DREAM   OF  BLUE   ROSES 

was  no  safety  anywhere.  Her  bedroom  door  had  no 
key,  so  that  any  precautions  she  tried  to  take  in  that 
direction  were  futile. 

One  night,  after  a  day  of  more  than  usual  ill-temper 
on  the  part  of  Mrs.  Waghorn,  Barbara,  dispirited  and 
desperately  fatigued,  climbed  the  stairs  wearily,  and  sat 
down  on  the  edge  of  her  bed,  to  rest  for  a  few  minutes 
before  undressing.  She  felt  something  lumpy,  and  on 
turning  back  the  clothes  found  four  snails  and  the  dead 
body  of  a  bird.  She  thought  of  fetching  Mrs.  Waghorn, 
but  dreaded  the  scolding  that  would  ensue,  for  she  had 
learned  that  the  blame  for  Clarence's  ill-doings  invari- 
ably shifted  by  some  sleight  of  hand  on  to  her  shoulders. 
Violet  seemed  to  think  that  the  trouble  was  entirely  due 
to  Barbara's  weakness.  She  merely  repeated  her  former 
advice.    *"Ide  'im.    You'll  get  no  peace  till  you  do  !  " 

On  her  first  Saturday  at  the  "Mill  House,"  Mrs.  Wag- 
horn went  out  to  pay  a  visit,  accompanied,  to  Barbara's 
infinite  relief,  by  her  redoubtable  offspring.  She  had 
left  endless  instructions  as  to  the  duties  to  be  performed 
in  her  absence,  and  the  girl  worked  hard  for  a  couple 
of  hours,  and  then  put  on  her  hat  and  went  to  the  post 
office  to  despatch  a  parcel,  as  Mrs.  Waghorn  had 
directed. 

This  done,  she  strolled  back  along  the  river,  rejoicing 
in  the  quiet  and  fresh  air,  thankful  to  be  free  from  the 
buzz  of  the  engines,  which  had  sounded  ceaselessly  in 
her  ears  for  nearly  a  week.  Her  head  was  aching, 
partly  from  sheer  fatigue  and  partly  from  the  effect  of 
the  smell  of  the  tanning,  which  had  been  particularly 
nauseous  the  previous  day,  and  to  which  she  could  not 
get  accustomed.  There  were  seats  along  the  public 
footpath,  and  presently  Barbara  sank  down  on  one, 
overwhelmed  by  a  sudden  rush  of  home-sickness.  For 
the  past  five  days  she  had  worked  incessantly,  rising 
early  and  going  to  bed  late,  striving  her  utmost  to  fulfil 
the  never-ending  exactions  of  Mrs.  Waghorn,  who  never 
gave  her  time  to  complete  anything  she  began,  and 
promptly  scolded  her  for  leaving  things  unfinished.  It 
was  impossible  to  satisfy  her.    On  one  or  two  occasions, 


CLARENCE  121 

after  some  outburst  of  temper  more  violent  than  usual, 
the  meek  Mr.  Waghorn  had  endeavoured  to  stem  the 
torrent  of  his  wife's  fretful  but  vehement  abuse,  but  his 
efforts  only  made  matters  worse.  He  was,  as  Violet  had 
said,  "a  detail"  of  no  account  whatever. 

Oh  !  for  the  sound  of  Petite  Mare's  loving  voice,  for 
the  touch  of  her  hand,  for  the  peace  and  simple  freedom 
from  care  of  her  life  at  Le  Pavilion.  Tears  of  loneliness 
and  unhappiness  rose  in  the  girl's  eyes  at  the  thought 
of  home,  but  she  forced  them  back.  She  had  no  inten- 
tion of  giving  in.  Her  courage  still  remained,  shaken 
a  little,  perhaps,  but  not  destroyed. 

"Hullo,  Barbara!  "  said  a  cheery  voice.  "I  was  just 
coming  to  see  you,  when  I  spied  you  from  the  bridge. 
Mother  sent  me  to  know  how  you  were  getting  on." 

"Oh,  Phil,"  she  cried,  "I  am  so  glad  to  see  you! 
How  is  your  father  ?  " 

"He  wasn't  so  well  when  you  left,  was  he?  But  he 
has  picked  up  again  now.  What's  the  matter  with  you  ? 
You  look  pretty  washed  out !  Why  haven't  you  been 
to  see  us  ?  " 

"This  is  the  first  time  I've  been  out;  I've  been  very 
busy." 

"Well,  I  suppose  you'll  be  coming  up  to-morrow — 
Sunday  afternoon  ?  " 

"  1  am  afraid  not,"  said  Barbara  sorrowfully.  "  I  think 
Mrs.  Waghorn  is  expecting  friends;  she  told  me  she 
should  want  me." 

"But  I  say,  that's  all  rot,  you  know.  You  ought  to  be 
free  on  Sunday  afternoons,  anyway,"  said  the  boy. 
"Tell  me,  Barbara,  it  isn't  all  beer  and  skittles,  is 
it?" 

"Well,"  she  answered,  smiling,  "it's  not  all  quite  easy, 
if  that  is  what  you  mean." 

"Why  don't  you  chuck  it?" 

"Phil,"  she  said  earnestly,  "I  can't.  I  can't  and 
won't.  At  least,  not  without  having  a  very  good  try  at 
it;  and  I  want  you  to  promise  me  not  to  say  anything 
to  your  father  and  mother.  Just  say  you  have  seen  me, 
and  that  I  send  my  love." 


122  A  DREAM  OF  BLUE   ROSES 

"I  know  perfectly  well,  if  I  told  them  what  you  look 
like,  mother  would  have  you  out  of  it  before  you  could 
say  knife,"  returned  Phil  bluntly. 

"But  you  will  not  say  anything,  will  you?"  she 
begged.  "  I  really  cannot  afford  to  lose  this  place,  and 
very  likely  it  will  be  better  when  I  am  used  to  it." 

"What's  the  trouble?" 

"Oh,  a  lot  of  stupid  little  trifles,"  she  said  lightly.  " I 
really  don't  know  which  is  the  worst,"  she  added, 
smiling,  "Mrs.  Waghorn  or  the  boy.  But  never  mind; 
I'm  going  to  stay." 

Philip  nodded.  "You're  plucky,"  he  said  admiringly. 
"All  right,  I  won't  give  you  away;  at  least,  not  at 
present.  I'll  come  and  see  how  things  are  going  in  a 
few  days." 

"Oh,  please  don't  do  that,"  she  said  quickly.  "  Indeed, 
you  had  better  stay  away.  Mrs.  Waghorn  mightn't 
like  it." 

"Well,  I'll  see.  I  won't  promise  anything,"  was  his 
only  comment.  They  walked  together  to  the  gate  of  the 
"Mill  House,"  and  here  Phil  bade  her  good-bye,  and, 
mounting  his  bicycle,  rode  away  up  the  road. 

How  Barbara  longed  to  go  with  him,  for  a  taste  of 
Molly's  refreshing  gaiety,  if  only  for  an  hour. 

In  the  hall  Mrs.  Waghorn  was  standing.  "Where 
have  you  been  ?  "  she  demanded. 

'"I  went  to  the  post  office  to  despatch  your  parcel," 
Barbara  answered  quietly. 

"Don't  tell  me.  I  saw  you  philandering  down  by  the 
river.  First  you  tell  me  you  don't  know  any  one  in  the 
town,  and  then  the  first  time  you  go  out  you  waste  your 
time  meeting  a  young  man  !  Don't  tell  me  you  didn't 
expect  to  meet  him  !  It  isn't  likely  I  should  believe 
that !  " 

"You  knew  that  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Arkwright  were  my 
friends;  it  was  their  son  to  whom  I  spoke." 

"So  you  say.  I've  only  your  word  for  it !  Don't  let 
it  happen  again,  that's  all — and  don't  stand  wasting  time 
now  you  have  come  in." 

And  so  the  days  went  on,  dragging  wearily  one  after 


CLARENCE  128 

the  other,  until  the  end  of  the  following  week ;  and  then 
the  climax  came. 

Mrs.  Waghorn  announced  that  she  was  giving  a 
luncheon  party. 

An  old  friend  and  her  daughter  were  coming  by  train 
to  spend  the  day,  and  Mrs.  Winch,  a  neighbour,  had 
been  asked  to  meet  them. 

Mr.  Waghorn 's  presence  at  home  was  commanded, 
and  great  preparations  were  made.  A  new  suit  had 
been  designed  for  Clarence — black  velvet,  with  a  crochet 
collar.  Barbara  had  toiled  early  and  late  to  finish  it, 
and  had,  in  obedience  to  Mrs.  Waghorn 's  instructions, 
embroidered  a  large  C.  in  gold  silk  upon  the  breast. 
For  once  the  lady  vouchsafed  a  word  of  commendation. 

"That  looks  all  right,"  she  said  condescendingly; 
"you  haven't  done  it  so  badly.  I  got  the  idea  from 
Social  Snippings.  Lady  Somebody's  children  always 
have  them  like  that.  It  looks  most  genteel !  You'll  take 
care  of  it,  won't  you,  Clarence,  ducky?" 

Saturday  morning  came.  Mr.  Waghorn  left  the  house 
early,  banished  by  his  wife's  incessant  orders  and 
counter  orders,  but  promising  to  return  punctually  at 
one  o'clock. 

And  then  the  first  blow  fell !  A  small  girl,  breathless 
with  speed,  and  bursting  with  the  importance  of  her 
news,  announced  to  Violet  that  her  young  man  had  met 
with  an  accident.  It  was  impossible  to  gather  from  the 
incoherent  messenger  the  extent  of  his  injuries,  or, 
indeed,  anything  beyond  the  fact  that  he  had  been 
carried  to  the  " 'orspital,  lookin'  like  death!"  Violet 
never  hesitated;  she  dashed  upstairs,  and,  flinging  on 
a  coat  and  hat,  announced  her  immediate  intention  of 
following  her  swain  to  learn  the  worst  for  herself.  In 
vam  Mrs.  Waghorn  barred  her  exit  and  stormed  at  the 
girl,  reminding  her  of  the  expected  guests,  and  asking 
her  who  was  to  do  the  cooking.  Violet  swept  her  to  one 
side.  "What's  that  to  me?" — her  voice  rising  almost 
to  a  shriek.  "'E  may  be  lyin'  dead  at  this  moment !  " 
And  with  that  she  flew  off  down  the  path,  closely 
followed  by  the  messenger. 


124  A  DREAM   OF   BLUE   ROSES 

Mrs.  Waghorn  sank  into  a  chair  and  sobbed  aloud. 
This  really  was  too  much  !  And  Barbara,  only  too 
wishful  to  gratify  her,  offered  her  services.  The  offer 
was  not  very  well  received  at  first,  but  still,  whatever 
her  doubts  as  to  the  girl's  capabilities,  there  was  no  other 
way  out  of  the  difficulty.    It  was  the  best  she  could  do. 

Barbara  did  not  say  that  she  infinitely  preferred  pre- 
paring the  luncheon  to  sitting  through  the  festivity ;  she 
had  already  met  several  of  Mrs.  Waghorn 's  friends  ! 

For  a  while  peace  reigned.  The  table  was  laid — a 
strip  of  green  crinkled  paper  with  frilled  edges  adorned 
the  centre  of  it,  and  at  the  corners  were  four  little  pots 
of  ferns  enveloped  in  the  same  material.  The  effect  was 
so  pleasing  to  the  eye  that  Mrs.  Waghorn  became  quite 
affable,  and  all  went  well.  Barbara  completed  her 
arrangements  quietly  and  methodically;  the  menu — 
cutlets,  joint,  apple  tart,  and  savoury — presented  no 
difficulty  to  her.  She  rather  enjoyed  the  cooking  of 
them,  and  was  most  anxious  that  all  should  go  smoothly. 

The  only  thing  that  the  girl  afterwards  knew  ought 
to  have  aroused  her  suspicions  was  the  exemplary 
behaviour  of  Clarence  I  He  played  in  the  garden  all 
the  morning,  and  came  at  once  when  called,  to  have  his 
hair  curled,  and  to  be  arrayed  in  the  new  suit  by  his 
doting  mother.  At  the  time  the  danger  of  this  state  of 
affairs  did  not  strike  her. 

The  guests  arrived.  Mrs.  Jobbings,  a  stout  lady,  and 
her  daughter — the  latter  was  a  stylishly  dressed  young 
woman,  wearing  a  profusion  of  cheap  jewellery,  which 
rattled  as  she  moved — and  Mrs.  Winch,  a  middle-aged 
woman  with  a  kindly  face.  Mrs.  Waghorn,  attired  in 
a  very  tight  gown  of  red  velveteen,  the  neck  cut  lower 
than  usual,  and  adorned  with  a  row  of  very  large  pearls, 
received  them  with  effusion. 

She  confided  to  them  that  there  had  been  what  she 
termed  a  "fracass"  in  the  household,  but  that  Clarence's 
governess  had  volunteered  to  assist.  Mr.  Waghorn  pre- 
sented himself  at  the  right  moment,  and  Mrs.,  beaming 
with  satisfaction  and  unwonted  good-humour,  led  the 
party  into  the  dining-room,  and  they  took  their  seats. 


CLARENCE  126 

Clarence,  his  napkin  tucked  under  his  chin,  his  eyes  cast 
shyly  down,  looked  the  pattern  of  what  a  well-brought-up 
boy  should  be,  the  joy  of  his  mother's  heart. 

Mrs.  Waghorn  had  graciously  decreed  that  there  need 
be  no  waiting ;  if  Barbara  just  brought  in  the  dishes,  they 
would  help  themselves.  This  satisfactory  arrangement 
prevented  the  necessity  of  her  being  in  the  dining-room 
for  more  than  a  few  minutes  at  a  time.  She  was  intro- 
duced to  the  guests,  but  that  was  all.  It  is  true  that 
Mr.  Waghorn  mildly  ventured  to  inquire  whether  Miss 
Vincent  wasn't  going  to  get  any  dinner,  to  which  his 
wife  replied,  with  cheerful  mendacity,  that  Miss  Vincent 
had  preferred  to  lunch  earlier  ! 

Everything  went  without  a  hitch ;  the  joint  was  roasted 
to  a  turn,  the  pie-crust  of  superlative  lightness.  Nothing 
could  have  been  better. 

Barbara  had  taken  the  precaution  of  placing  a  slice  of 
beef  and  some  vegetables  in  a  hot  plate  on  the  stove; 
because,  even  if  it  must  perforce  be  late,  there  was  no 
reason  why  her  meal  should  also  be  cold.  For  the 
moment  she  had  no  leisure  to  think  of  herself  further. 

Luncheon  over,  the  party  moved  into  the  drawing- 
room,  and — fatal  fact — Clarence  disappeared.  His  de- 
parture was  not  noticed  in  the  hurry  of  the  moment. 
Barbara  made  the  coffee  and  carried  it  in.  She  was 
detained  for  a  few  moments  in  polite  conversation  with 
Mrs.  Winch,  who  thanked  her  for  all  the  trouble  she  had 
taken  on  their  behalf ;  then,  returning  to  the  kitchen,  she 
cleared  a  corner  of  the  table,  and  prepared  to  satisfy  her 
own  hunger.  Taking  the  hot  plate  from  the  stove,  she 
laid  it  on  the  table  and  lifted  the  cover,  and  screamed 
aloud,  while  the  cover  fell  clattering  to  the  floor.  There, 
on  the  hot  plate,  moving  convulsively  in  expiring  agony, 
lay — the  horrid  truth  must  be  recorded — a  large  frog. 
Barbara's  blood  boiled — the  disgusting  cruelty  of  it 
made  her  gorge  rise.  At  this  moment  she  turned  her 
head.  Round  the  door  peeped  Clarence — the  delight 
with  which  he  viewed  the  success  of  his  plot  made  him 
less  cautious  than  usual. 

"  Froggy,"  he  jeered,  "  here's  a  frog  for  your  dinner  !  " 


126  A  DREAM  OF  BLUE   ROSES 

Barbara's  self-control  vanished.  In  two  strides  she 
crossed  the  floor,  and,  grabbing  the  astonished  Clarence 
before  he  had  time  to  escape,  she  caught  him  a  resound- 
ing box  on  the  ear  with  all  the  strength  of  her  young 
arm. 

Shriek  after  shriek  rent  the  air.  He  stood,  his  hands 
clasped  on  both  sides  of  his  head,  yelling  with  the  full 
force  of  his  lungs  as  if  he  were  being  killed.  Mrs. 
Waghorn  ran  out  of  the  drawing-room,  followed  by  her 
alarmed  husband  and  friends,  for,  indeed,  it  sounHed  as 
if  nothing  short  of  murder  were  being  committed. 

And  after  that  the  deluge  ! 


CHAPTER    XV 


A  SECOND  ATTEMPT 


"Who  keeps  one  end  in  view  makes  all  things  serve. 

Robert  Browning. 

It  was  some  time  before  Barbara  could  make  herself 
heard  above  the  din,  for  Clarence,  his  face  hidden  against 
his  mother's  skirt,  continued  to  scream  with  unabated 
vigour.  Mr.  Waghorn,  having  satisfied  himself  that  the 
boy  was  uninjured,  beat  a  cowardly  retreat,  and,  seizing 
his  hat,  bolted  through  the  front  door. 

At  last  Barbara  managed  to  tell  her  story  and  showed 
the  plate  with  its  horrid  remains.  "  He  must  have  done 
it  while  I  was  in  the  salon  with  the  coffee,"  she  said 
indignantly;  "I  boxed  his  ears,  and  he  well  deserved  it. 
He  is  making  a  great  noise,  but  he  isn't  the  least  bit 
suffering." 

"  Little  beast ! "  said  Miss  Jobbins,  with  a  face  of 
disgust ;  "he  ought  to  be  thrashed  !  " 

Mrs.  Waghorn  had,  up  to  the  present,  been  occupied 
in  trying  to  comfort  the  miscreant;  but  now,  stuttering, 
almost  foaming  with  fury,  she  turned  upon  Barbara. 
"You  hussy!"  she  raged,  "you  impudent,  good-for- 
nothing  hussy  !  What  do  you  mean  by  laying  a  hand 
on  my  child?  I'll  have  the  law  of  you,  I  will!  I'll 
summons  you  for  assault !     I'll  send  for  the  police !  " 

"Come,  come,  Mrs.  Waghorn,"  interrupted  Mrs. 
Winch,  endeavouring  to  interrupt  the  flow  of  vindictive 
words;  "you  are  hardly  fair  to  the  young  lady " 

But  Mrs.  Waghorn  paid  no  heed.  "Get  you  gone  out 
of  my  house!  "  She  fairly  shouted  the  words.  "This 
minute.     With  your  sneaking  foreign  ways." 

"What  is  the  meaning  of  this?" 

They  all  turned  at  the  sound  of  a  fresh  voice,  as  Philip 
strode   into   their    midst.      For   a   moment    even    Mrs. 

127 


128  A  DREAM   OF   BLUE   ROSES 

Waghorn  was  taken  aback.  Phil,  who  looked  hugely  tall 
in  the  low  kitchen,  spoke  in  an  authoritative  tone,  his  eyes 
flashing,  his  whole  appearance  masterful  and  determined. 

Then  she  recommenced,  but  he  quickly  cut  her  short. 
"Thank  you.  I  heard  what  you  said;  I  should  like  to 
hear  the  truth  from  Miss  Vincent." 

Barbara  felt  like  bursting  into  tears,  and  was  speech- 
less ;  but  Mrs.  Winch  proved  herself  a  friend  and 
explained  the  tragedy. 

Philip  wasted  no  words.  "Go  upstairs  and  pack  your 
things,  Barbara,"  he  said  sharply.  "Come  home  with 
me.    You  shan't  stay  a  moment  longer  in  this  house." 

And  Barbara  fled. 

Then  Mrs.  Waghorn  found  her  voice  again.  "And 
who  may  you  be,  I  should  like  to  know  ?  "  she  demanded, 
standing  with  her  arms  akimbo  and  all  her  thin  veneer 
of  gentility  departed.  "And  who  may  you  be,  coming 
into  my  house  and  ordering  people  about  and  interfering 
in  what's  not  any  business  of  yours?  What  have  you 
got  to  do  with  the  young  lady,  as  you  call  her,  although 
I  should  say  the  name  was  too  good  for  her?  What 
have  you  got  to  say  to  her  ?  Or,  perhaps,"  she  added 
nastily,  "I'd  better  not  ask,  eh?  " 

"My  name  is  Philip  Arkwright."  The  lad's  temper 
was  barely  under  control.  "If  you  want  to  find  me  you 
can  do  so  at  Mr.  Roach's  office  in  the  Market  Place. 
Now  I'll  trouble  you  to  give  Miss  Vincent  the  money 
you  owe  her,  plus  a  month's  payment  and  board  in  lieu 
of  notice."  He  drew  out  a  pencil  and  made  a  rapid 
calculation  on  his  shirt  cuff.  "That's  the  total,"  he 
said  shortly.     "At  once,  please." 

Mrs.  Waghorn  fumed.  "I  shall  do  no  such  thing, 
Impudence !  " 

"Oh  yes,  you  will,"  he  answered  sharply.  "Unless 
you  prefer  that  the  matter  should  be  brought  into  court." 

Finally,  after  much  argument,  he  succeeded  in  obtain- 
ing payment  from  Mrs.  Waghorn.  Whether  he  would 
have,  had  it  not  been  for  the  presence  of  her  friends 
which  shamed  her  into  compliance,  it  is  impossible  to 
say.     But  when  Barbara  came  downstairs  she  had  only 


A   SECOND   ATTEMPT  129 

to  do  as  he  told  her,  and  sign  the  receipt,  and  be  marched 
off  without  further  parley.  She  was  shaking  from  head 
to  foot,  and  he  placed  his  arm  under  hers  to  steady  her. 
Outside  the  gates  some  men  were  lounging,  the  works 
being  closed  for  the  half  day,  and  one  of  them  returned 
at  Phil's  order  to  fetch  the  trunk,  which  he  professed 
himself  willing  to  deliver  at  the  "White  House  "  within 
an  hour.  As  they  walked  along,  Phil  wheeling  his  bicycle 
with  one  hand  while  with  the  other  he  still  guided  her 
unsteady  feet,  Barbara's  feelings  beggared  description. 
Disgust,  anger,  despair  overwhelmed  her !  She  had 
failed — whether  by  fault  of  her  own  or  not,  the  fact 
remained  that  she  had  failed. 

The  boy  showed  his  tact  in  saying  no  word,  giving 
her  time  to  recover  herself  as  they  paced  slowly  up 
the  hill. 

At  last  she  spoke.  "Oh,  Phil,"  she  said,  with  a  sob, 
"  what  should  I  have  done  if  you  had  not  come  I  " 

"You'd  have  been  all  right,"  he  said  quietly.  "That 
woman  in  black,  whatever  her  name  was,  would  have 
seen  you  through.  She  is  a  good  soul,  and  she  told 
me  that  if  there  was  any  trouble  she  would  be  glad  to 
speak  for  you.  She  meant  it  kindly,  I'm  sure.  That 
loathsome  little  brat !  My  aunt !  what  wouldn't  I  give 
for  ten  minutes  alone  with  him  and  a  hunting-crop ! 
He's  a  masterpiece!  What  do  they  label  him  for? 
CAD  is  written  all  over  him,  without  sticking  it  on  his 
clothes !  " 

Phil  was  raging  now,  "letting  off  steam,"  his  mother 
would  have  called  it. 

"Shall  I  get  into  trouble  over  it?"  asked  Barbara  in 
a  frightened  voice. 

"Not  you,  don't  you  believe  it,"  was  his  reassuring 
answer.  "Waghorn  isn't  such  a  fool,  whatever  his 
missus  may  be  !  " 

**  You  go  straight  upstairs  and  have  a  rest,"  said  Phil, 
as  they  reached  the  "White  House."  "I'll  tell  mother, 
and  she'll  see  you  are  not  disturbed  till  tea  time.  You'll 
be  all  the  better  for  a  good  sleep." 

Barbara  did  as  he  told  her,  and  walked  upstairs  into 


180  A   DREAM   OF  BLUE   ROSES 

the  little  room  she  had  previously  occupied,  and  taking 
off  her  hat  and  coat  lay  down  upon  the  bed  and  burst 
into  tears. 

The  thought  of  her  failure  tortured  her,  and  she  felt 
there  was  nothing  for  her  to  do  but  to  go  back  and 
make  confession  to  Petite  M6re.  Petite  M^re,  who  knew 
nothing  of  actual  facts,  for  Barbara  had  not  told  her  of 
the  final  extinction  of  her  hopes  by  the  lawyer's  opinion. 
She  had  dreaded  to  cause  the  good  little  woman  anxiety 
by  telling  her  the  facts,  and  had  merely  said  that  up  to 
the  present  she  had  not  been  able  to  arrange  matters 
with  regard  to  her  fortune ;  but  now,  almost  penniless, 
and  with  no  prospect  of  being  able  to  earn  money,  what 
was  the  use  of  her  staying  in  England?  And  yet,  what 
was  she  to  do  at  the  Pavilion  ?  Could  she  return  to  be 
a  burden  and  an  expense  ? 

To  such  a  depth  of  misery  had  she  fallen  that  posi- 
tively the  thought  of  Monsieur  Jean  Paul  and  his  pro- 
testations of  undying  devotion  drew  her  like  a  magnet. 
If  she  married  him  she  would  at  least  have  security  and 
a  home  of  her  own,  and  after  Mrs.  Septimus  Waghorn, 
Madame  Laurent  appeared  positively  engaging,  espe- 
cially at  a  distance  !  Jean  Paul  might  not  be  prepossess- 
ing in  appearance,  but,  as  Petite  M^re  had  said,  he  was 
a  good  son,  and  would  probably  be  a  good  husband. 
And  then,  fortunately,  in  the  middle  of  her  anxiety  as  to 
the  future,  she  feel,  asleep,  and  kindly  nature  soothed 
her  into  unconsciousness  of  all  her  perplexities. 

When  she  awoke  it  was  five  o'clock,  and  jumping  up 
she  bathed  her  face,  which  was  still  flushed  from  her 
weeping,  and,  smoothing  her  disordered  hair,  she  ran 
down  to  the  drawing-room. 

Molly  kissed  her  affectionately,  and  Dick  shook  her 
warmly  by  the  hand,  and  without  saying  a  word  about 
her  trouble  they  both  made  her  aware  of  their  sympathy, 
which  was  none  the  less  real  for  being  unexpressed. 

"Here  is  Mr.  Poole,"  said  Molly;  "I  think  you  have 
met  him  before." 

Barbara  turned  to  greet  the  Vicar  of  St.  Ethel's,  an 
old  man  with  snow-white  hair  and  a  kindly  face,  who 


A   SECOND  ATTEMPT  181 

had  been  sitting  beside  the  sofa  on  which  Dick  was 
lying. 

"Yes,"  he  said,  as  he  shook  hands,  "we  have  met 
before.  Mrs.  Arkwright  has  been  teUing  me  that  you 
know  Les  Andelys.  It  is  many  years  since  I  was  there, 
but  I  always  remember  it  as  one  of  the  most  lovely  places 
I  have  ever  seen." 

'•  It  was  the  home  of  my  childhood,  so  I  know  it  very 
well,"  answered  the  girl,  with  a  little  break  in  her  voice, 
and  through  the  tears  that  rose  to  her  eyes  she  could  see 
once  more  the  little  house  with  the  green  jalousies,  the 
sheltered  garden,  and  even  the  familiar  form  of  her 
beloved  Pire  Joseph,  seated  in  the  Temple  de  la  Re- 
flexion beside  the  river.  Oh,  if  only  P^re  Joseph  were 
here  now,  what  would  he  counsel  her  to  do  ? 

"Chateau  Gaillard  on  a  summer's  evening,  standing 
white  against  the  blue  sky  and  with  the  broad  river 
flowing  beneath,  is  a  sight  which  once  seen  can  never 
be  forgotten,"  continued  the  kind  old  man.  "I  have 
some  very  fine  photographs  of  it  which  I  should  like  to 
show  you  some  day." 

"  How  long  is  it  since  you  were  there  ?  "  asked  Molly. 

"Many,  many  years.  It  is  as  well  not  to  be  too 
precise  in  these  matters,  since  accuracy  only  serves  to 
remind  one  how  fast  the  years  have  gone  by,"  he 
answered  smiling. 

"You  needn't  worry  about  the  years,  Mr.  Poole,"  said 
Dick  cheerily.  "They  don't  seem  to  affect  you  at  all. 
I've  known  you  for  twenty  of  them  and  you  haven't 
changed  a  bit,  and  I  don't  think  St.  Ethel's  has  changed 
much  either  since  the  days  when  I  used  to  come  here 
as  a  boy,  when  old  Cousin  John  Arkwright  lived  in  this 
house." 

"Oh,  St.  Ethel's  has  changed,"  said  Mr.  Poole  sadly; 
"not  perhaps  so  much  in  the  town,  although  even  there 
I  see  changes,  but  in  the  people.  Nearly  all  those  I 
knew  and  loved  have  left  us ;  but  of  that  I  have  no  right 
to  complain,  seeing  it  cannot  be  otherwise  when  one  has 
reached  one's  allotted  span  of  three  score  years.  I  might 
add  the  ten,  but  I  won't.    Actually  in  St.  Ethel's  itself 

K  2 


182  A   DREAM   OF   BLUE   ROSES 

I  can  only  count  three  or  four  of  my  old  friends  and 
contemporaries,  although,  of  course,  I  can  add  to  their 
number  in  the  neighbourhood.  By  the  way  I  am  sorely 
distressed  about  a  very  particular  friend  of  mine,  whom 
I  think  you  know  :  I  am  speaking  of  Miss  Leigh,  who 
lives  in  the  village  of  Fiddler's  Green." 

"Is  she  ill?"  asked  Molly. 

"No,  I  am  thankful  to  say  she  is  not  ill,  although  her 
sister,  Miss  Margaret,  who  lives  with  her,  is  always 
delicate ;  but  the  two  old  ladies  are  in  a  grievous  plight 
just  now.  It  is  a  purely  domestic  matter,  but  a  serious 
one,  nevertheless.  They  live  a  very  quiet  and  retired 
life,  and  in  their  case  what  might  be  a  slight  trouble  to 
many  assumes  a  great  importance ;  but  the  fact  is,  that 
for  many  years  they  have  had  a  most  excellent  French 
servant,  who  was  greatly  attached  to  them,  and  who 
devoted  herself  to  their  comfort;  but  recently  she  has 
been  compelled  to  return  to  her  native  country.  They 
have  since  been  very  unfortunate  and  have  not  been 
able  to  find  any  one  to  fill  her  place  in  the  least,  the 
truth  being  that  their  good  Marie  was  friend,  companion, 
adviser  and  servant  all  in  one,  and  they  are  lost  without 
her.  I  suppose  you  would  not  be  inclined  to  let  me  steal 
your  excellent  Alice  for  them  ?  " 

"Oh,  never !  "  cried  Molly  decidedly;  "I  know  I  have 
to  thank  you  for  her,  but  I  couldn't  possibly  give  her 
up.  Poor  old  ladies,  I  am  very  sorry  for  them,  but  I 
must  confess  my  sympathy  does  not  go  so  far  as  making 
me  willing  to  hand  over  my  domestic  angel.  Cannot 
you  find  any  one  for  them  ?  " 

There  was  a  twinkle  in  the  old  man's  eye,  as  he 
answered,  "  Well,  to  be  quite  honest,  my  attempt  was  a 
failure,  a  grievous  failure,  and  it  only  resulted  in  Miss 
Leigh  being  frightened  out  of  her  wits.  Now,  if  only 
my  good  old  friend  Miss  Laetitia  had  been  alive  she 
could  have  helped  in  such  a  case  as  this." 

"  Who  was  she  ?  "  asked  Molly ;  "  I  don't  think  I  knew 
her." 

"No,  you  never  knew  her.  She  was  a  very  remark- 
able woman.  Miss  Laetitia  Brown,  and  she  lived  in  the 


A   SECOND   ATTEMPT  188 

little  red  house  in  the  Market  Square,  at  the  corner  of 
Hen's  Walk ;  her  father  had  been  Rector  of  St.  Ethel's, 
one  of  my  predecessors,  and  she  spent  all  her  life  here. 
She  occupied  herself  with  good  works  and  was  extra- 
ordinarily charitable.  Her  means  were  small,  so  small 
indeed  that  it  was  a  marvel  how  she  managed  to  exist, 
but  exist  she  did,  and  always  managed  to  have  some- 
thing to  spare  for  those  worse  off  than  herself.  One  of 
her  occupations  was  to  train  girls  for  service — not  infre- 
quently she  took  them  from  the  workhouse — ^and  so  great 
was  her  reputation  for  success  in  this  particular  line, 
that  there  was  a  great  demand  for  Miss  Tichy's  maids. 
The  people  always  knew  her  as  Miss  Tichy  !  Times 
have  changed,  and  the  Miss  Tichys  of  the  world  are 
now  few  and  far  between.  I  remember  her  so  well. 
She  presented  an  unusual  figure,  for  she  paid  no  attention 
to  the  prevailing  fashion,  and  always  wore  a  brown  stuff 
gown,  year  in,  year  out,  with  a  mushroom  hat  tied  under 
her  chin.  The  only  change  she  made  in  her  outward 
apparel  was  that  she  donned  a  poke  bonnet  on  Sundays. 
She  used  to  step  across  to  sup  with  me  sometimes,  and 
because  she  considered  it  unsuitable  for  a  lady  to  venture 
abroad  at  night  without  an  escort  she  always  brought 
her  maid  with  her.  Her  little  maids  were  often  extremely 
young,  and  were  more  of  a  care  than  a  protection,  but 
that  made  no  difference.  I  can  see  her  now,  with  her 
gown  bunched  up  round  her  waist  and  wooden  clogs 
on  her  feet,  bidding  me  good-night,  while  a  sleepy  little 
Jane,  or  Mary,  or  Eliza,  as  the  case  might  be,  waited, 
lantern  in  hand,  at  a  respectful  distance." 

"  I  am  sure  I  should  have  loved  her,"  said  Molly,  who 
enjoyed  the  old  gentleman's  reminiscences. 

"Yes,  every  one  loved  her,  and  her  memory  remains. 
Only  last  week  I  was  walking  in  George  Street  and 
stopped  to  speak  to  a  woman  at  her  cottage  door,  remark- 
ing that  I  always  noticed  the  spotless  whiteness  of  her 
front  step. 

'"Well,  sir,'  she  replied,  'Miss  Tichy,  she  larned 
me  to  whiten  a  stone,  and  I'd  take  shame  to  myself  if  I 
forgot  what  she  larned  me.     Many  is  the  time  she  has 


184  A   DREAM   OF   BLUE   ROSES 

stood  beside  me  at  six  o'clock  of  a  freezing  winter's 
morning,  making  me  do  it  rightly,  for  I  wasn't  an  easy 
one  to  larn.  But  now  I  keep  it  white  for  her  sake.'  My 
good  Martha,  who  has  ruled  sternly  at  the  Vicarage  for 
thirty  years,  was  another  of  Miss  Tichy's  maids." 

"It  is  rather  a  nice  idea,  isn't  it?  "  said  Molly.  "The 
white  step  is  her  monument." 

"It  is  certainly  a  monument  of  affection,  and  she 
deserved  it,  for  they  knew  she  knew  all  their  sorrows 
and  helped  all  who  were  sick  and  suffering." 

"I  don't  suppose  it  is  so  easy  to  live  on  a  little  now 
as  it  was  in  her  day?"  remarked  Dick. 

"I  don't  know  about  that,"  answered  the  old  man, 
shaking  his  head.  "The  fact  is  that  this  is  a  money- 
seeking  age,  and  if  any  one  has  a  small  income  they 
cannot  be  content  to  do  on  it,  but  must  strive  to  increase 
it.  It  seems  to  me  all  right  for  men,  but  a  pity  for 
women.  I  am  old-fashioned,  I  know,  and  have  outlived 
my  generation,  but  it  saddens  me  to  see  the  way  girls 
won't  stay  at  home  now,  and  help  their  mothers,  but 
must  rush  into  some  employment  which  brings  them  in 
a  few  shillings  to  spend,  not  on  useful  things,  but  on 
sham  pearl  necklaces  and  lace  collars.  It  seems  to  me 
that  in  the  cottages  at  any  rate  it  is  the  mother's  right 
to  have  a  little  care  and  attention  when  she  is  getting 
old,  and  has  borne  all  the  burden  and  heat  of  the  day. 
I  know  a  woman  now  who  has  four  daughters.  She  is 
old  and  ill,  but  they  all  go  off  to  the  factory  Downhill, 
and  have  no  time  for  her." 

"But  we  have  district  nurses,"  said  Molly. 

"That  is  true,  and  excellent  women  they  are  in  cases 
of  sickness ;  but  they  cannot  give  the  care  and  affection 
that  is  the  daughter's  privilege.  Some  girls  are  obliged 
to  work,  of  course;  but  I  should  like  to  see  many  more 
giving  consideration  to  the  home  duties  which  are,  I 
know,  tedious  at  times.  Miss  Leigh,  for  instance,  has 
two  nieces,  but  each  has  her  work  and  no  thought  or 
leisure  for  her.  One  is  secretary  to  a  golf  club,  and  that 
of  course  prevents  her  leaving  home."  The  old  gentle- 
man chuckled  as  he  spoke,     "And  yet  I  can't  imagine 


A   SECOND   ATTEMPT  185 

any  one  more  delightful  to  live  with  than  Miss 
Leigh." 

"  I  know  her  nephew,  Stephen  Grant,  very  well,"  said 
Dick.  "A  good  fellow  he  is,  and  comes  down  pretty 
constantly  to  see  the  old  ladies." 

"Yes,  Stephen  is  a  good  nephew  to  them  and  is  most 
considerate ;  but  what  they  want  is  a  niece,  or  at  any 
any  rate  a  woman  who  will  look  after  them." 

"I  wish  I  knew  them,  but  you  know  we  have  no 
carriage  and  I  so  seldom  go  out  anywhere."  It  was 
Molly  who  spoke. 

"It  would  be  a  pleasure  both  to  you  and  to  them,  I 
am  sure,"  said  Mr.  Poole  courteously.  "Well,  since 
you  will  not  let  me  have  your  Alice  I  must  be  going, 
for  I  really  must  find  some  one  to  go  to  them  to-night." 
He  rose  as  he  spoke  and  made  his  farewells. 

As  he  walked  to  the  door  Barbara  stepped  quickly 
forward  and  caught  hold  of  Molly's  arm. 

"  Molly,"  she  cried,  "ask  him  !    Can  I  not  go  ?  " 

"Go  where,  Barbara?"  asked  Mrs.  Arkwright  in 
surprise. 

"To  the  old  ladies.  I  would  try  to  make  them 
happy." 

Molly  looked  doubtful,  and  Barbara  ran  out  into  the 
hall  to  see  Mr.  Poole's  black-coated  figure  walking  to 
the  gate. 

She  flew  out,  and  he  turned  at  the  sound  of  her  foot- 
steps. 

"Oh,  Monsieur,"  she  said,  her  English  failing  her  as 
it  still  did  occasionally.  "Pardon  that  I  detain  you, 
but  might  I  not  go  to  the  ladies  whom  you  mention." 

"You,  Miss  Vincent?  "  he  looked  kindly  at  her  pretty 
flushed  face  and  eager  eyes.  "I  am  afraid  you  have 
misunderstood  me.     Miss  Leigh  requires  a  servant." 

"Why  should  it  not  be  me?"  she  replied  simply. 
"  I  have  to-day  left  a  situation  as — what  you  would  call 
mother's  help.  That  seems  to  me  to  be  little  different. 
There  was — unpleasantness  and  I  came  away.  It  was 
not  perhaps  altogether  my  fault — Philip  will  tell  you 
about  it.     I  can  well  look  after  a  manage,  and  you  said, 


136  A  DREAM   OF   BLUE   ROSES 

Monsieur,  that  these  ladies  required  also  some  one  who 
would  be  careful  of  their  comfort,  and  that  I  could  well 
promise  to  do." 

Mr.  Poole  looked  perplexed. 

"You  see,  Monsieur,"  she  went  on,  speaking  quickly, 
"it  is  necessary  that  I  earn  my  living,  and  it  appears 
that  I  have  not  sufficient  knowledge  to  teach.  But  to 
attend  to  the  house — that  I  well  understand,  and  I  could 
go  now — my  box  is  not  yet  unpacked." 

"You  would  find  your  life  dull  at  Fiddler's  Green,  I 
fear." 

"  I  do  not  think  so.  I  have  always  lived  very  quietly 
and  very  simply.  I  am  indeed  quite  suitable,  and  I 
would  try  my  very  best  to  do  all  that  the  ladies  required 
of  me." 

"  Let  us  come  and  consult  Mrs.  Arkwright,"  said  Mr. 
Poole,  and  they  returned  to  the  house. 

"This  kind  young  lady  suggests  that  she  shall  step 
into  the  breach,  and  go  to  Miss  Leigh's  help,"  he  began, 
as  they  entered  the  drawing-room. 

"Molly,"  said  Barbara  earnestly,  "will  you  not  tell 
Monsieur  that  I  have  all  the  knowledge  necessary? 
Oh,  do  you  not  see  that  it  is  a  chance  for  me  ?  I  cannot 
find  a  post  and  I  cannot  return  to  Petite  M^re." 

Molly  thought  for  a  few  moments.  "I  think  you 
might  go,"  she  said  at  last.  "You  will,  at  any  rate,  be 
with  ladies,  and  if  the  work  is  not  too  distasteful " 

"It  will  not  be  distasteful,  I  am  certain.  I  am  very 
fond  of  the  manage."  After  some  moments  of  discus- 
sion it  was  settled  that  Barbara  should  have  her  will 
and  go  to  Miss  Leigh,  at  any  rate  until  she  was  able 
to  find  some  one  else.  Mr.  Poole  was  obviously  relieved, 
and  grateful  that  she  could  proceed  to  Fiddler's  Green 
that  same  evening,  and  finally  departed  to  make  arrange- 
ments for  her  conveyance. 

"It  may  not  prove  to  be  a  suitable  occupation  for 
you,"  said  Dick,  when  the  trio  were  left  alone  together ; 
"but  I  am  certain  that  you  cannot  come  to  any  harm. 
And  if  you  are  in  the  least  unhappy  you  must  come 
back  here  at  once." 


A   SECOND   ATTEMPT  187 

"Yes,"  said  his  wife  decidedly;  "you  must  promise 
me  that  if  you  are  as  miserable  as  you  were  with  that 
dreadful  Mrs.  Waghorn  you  will  come  back  imme- 
diately. But  from  what  I  have  heard  of  Miss  Leigh 
from  Stephen  Grant,  she  seems  to  be  rather  a  dear  old 
lady.  Her  old  sister  is  a  little  peculiar,  rather  simple  and 
eccentric,  so  he  says,  but  not  in  the  least  disagreeable." 

"For  one  thing  I  am  grateful,  and  that  is  that  there 
is  no  child.  I  have  always  thought  that  I  loved  children, 
but  oh,  Molly,  Clarence  is  impossible  !  Do  you  think 
that  I  behaved  very  badly  ?  "  asked  Barbara  sorrowfully. 

"No,  I  don't.  Phil  has  told  me  all  about  it,  and  I 
only  wonder  you  stood  it  for  so  long.  I  blame  myself 
very  much  for  having  allowed  you  to  go.  I  never  liked 
it,  and  I  ought  to  have  prevented  it." 

"Never  mind.  It  is  finished  now,  and  I  am  fortun- 
ate in  having  another  opportunity  to  do  something  for 
myself.  You  have  been  so  very  good  to  me,  and  Phil 
was  so  kind." 

"The  boy  was  perfectly  right,  and  I  think  you  are 
very  well  out  of  it,"  said  Dick.  "I  think  you  are  jolly 
plucky,  and  I  hope  with  all  my  heart  Miss  Leigh  will 
be  nice  to  you." 

"You  won't  have  to  scrub  floors  or  clean  steps,  I 
sincerely  hope,"  said  Molly.  "Oh  dear,  oh  dear!  I  do 
wish  you  could  stay  here  with  us  !  " 

"I  do  not  mind  if  I  do,"  said  the  girl  stoutly;  "they 
shall  be  as  clean  as  Miss  Tichy's  if  I  do !  "  and  in  her 
heart  Barbara  was  thinking  of  dear  P^re  Joseph  and 
one  of  his  sayings,  "  What  matter  the  hands  if  the  heart 
is  clean  before  the  good  God." 

A  few  minutes  later  the  door  opened,  and  Lance 
walked  in. 

"There's  a  man  here  with  a  cart,"  he  said;  "Mr.  Poole 
has  sent  him  to  fetch  Barbara." 

"Who  is  it?"  asked  Dick. 

Molly  rose  and  went  to  the  door  with  Barbara,  and 
there  they  found  a  cart  waiting  as  Lance  had  said.  A 
young  man  was  standing  at  the  horse's  head.  He  raised 
his  cap. 


188  A   DREAM   OF   BLUE   ROSES 

"I  am  John  Strong,"  he  said,  "of  Fancy's  Farm.  1 
met  Mr.  Poole  in  the  town,  and  when  he  found  I  was 
driving  home  he  asked  me  to  take  a  young  lady  as  far 
as  Fiddler's  Green,  for  I  go  right  by  that  way.  I'm 
pleased  to  do  it  if  the  young  lady  doesn't  object  to  the 

pig-" 

"What  pig?"  asked  Molly,  smiling. 

"I've  a  young  pig  under  the  net  there,  and  he  doesn't 
seem  inclined  to  travel  very  quietly,  but " 

"I  don't  mind  that  at  all,"  interrupted  Barbara,  "if 
you  have  room  for  my  box." 

"  If  your  son  will  just  stand  at  the  mare's  head  for  a 
minute  I  will  manage  all  right,  but  I  can't  leave  her 
alone,  for  she  doesn't  fancy  being  stopped  with  her  nose 
towards  home." 

Lance  came  forward,  and  in  a  few  minutes  cheerful 
John  Strong  had  stowed  Barbara's  small  box  away 
under  the  seat,  much  to  the  discomfiture  of  Piggy, 
who  proclaimed  his  resentment  in  loud  and  shrill 
screams.  Patsy  came  running  out  from  the  kitchen  and 
pleaded  to  be  lifted  up  to  see  the  interesting  visitor,  and 
was  hugely  excited  when  the  young  farmer  told  her  he 
had  many  more  at  home. 

"  Have  you  any  little  weeny  ones  ?  " 

"Plenty  of  them,"  he  told  her  good-naturedly. 

"Are  they  all  pink?" 

"Some  are  black,"  he  answered,  laughing. 

"I  suppose,"  said  Patsy  plaintively,  putting  her  little 
curly  head  on  one  side,  "you  haven't  got  a  spotted 
one  ?  " 

"Why,  yes  I  have,  to  be  sure.  Three  spotted  ones 
and  one  white,  I  should  say  pink  one,"  he  corrected  him- 
self, "which  is  half  black.  He  looks  as  if  he  had  a  pair 
of  black  Sunday  trousers  on  !  " 

Patsy's  eyes  grew  round  with  interest.  "  I  should 
love  to  see  a  pink  pig  with  black  trousers,"  she  said, 
clasping  her  hands  ecstatically. 

"Why,  so  you  can,  any  day,  if  you  come  up  to  Fancy's 
Farm." 

"Oh,  mummy,  may  I  go?" 


A   SECOND   ATTEMPT  189 

"Why  yes,  darling,  you  may  go,  if  Mr.  Strong  will 
let  you." 

"  May  I  go  now  ?  "  Patsy  executed  a  little  pas  seul  on 
the  step  in  her  excitement. 

"No,  not  now;  but  Phil  will  take  you  one  Saturday 
afternoon  if  you  ask  him." 

Patsy  looked  a  little  depressed,  but  made  no  answer. 
Barbara  climbed  up  into  the  tax-cart,  and  John  Strong 
was  just  following,  his  foot  was  on  the  step,  when  the 
child  ran  forward  and  pulled  him  by  the  coat. 

"Are  you  sure,"  she  said  solemnly,  "that  nobody 
hasn't  painted  him?" 

The  man  looked  mystified,  and  then  as  he  grasped  her 
meaning  he  broke  into  a  hearty  laugh. 

"Why,  no,"  he  said,  "he  was  born  like  that!  " 

Patsy  held  out  her  hand.  "Good-bye,  man,"  she  said 
politely;  "I  am  glad  he  isn't  painted,  because  I  have 
always  wanted  to  see  a  real  pig  in  trousers.  But  if  it 
was  painted  it  wouldn't  be  real,  would  it?" 

Patsy  was  always  irresistible  when  she  put  on  her  polite 
manner,  and  John  Strong  looked  slightly  embarrassed 
as  he  clasped  her  tiny  hand  in  his  huge  paw. 

"You  come  along  any  day,"  he  said  heartily,  and  in 
another  moment  the  skittish  mare  was  proceeding  down 
the  drive  in  a  series  of  leaps  and  bounds. 


CHAPTER    XVI 

fiddler's  green 

"  The  common  problem,  yours,  mine,  everyone's, 
Is — not  to  fancy  what  were  fair  in  life 
Provided  it  could  be — but,  finding  first 
What  may  be,  then  find  how  to  make  it  fair 
Up  to  our  means — a  very  different  thing." 

Robert  Browning. 

"You  mustn't  mind  the  mare,"  said  John  cheerfully, 
as  they  turned  into  the  high  road.  "She's  a  bit  frolic- 
some at  times,  and  we  call  her  Frolic.  It's  a  good 
name  for  her.     There's  no  cause  to  be  alarmed." 

"I  am  not  at  all  alarmed,  thank  you.  How  far  have 
we  to  drive  ?  "  asked  Barbara. 

"  'Tis  a  matter  of  four  miles,  as  near  as  can  be,  but 
a  good  road  all  the  way.  Frolic  steps  along  and  makes 
nothing  of  the  hills.    Do  you  know  these  parts  ?  " 

"No,  I  am  quite  a  stranger.  I  do  not  know  England 
well,   I   have  always  lived  in  France." 

"  Have  you,  indeed  ?  "  he  replied  with  interest.  "  I 
don't  know  much  about  that  country.  Our  ways  will 
seem  different  to  you,  I  suppose.  I  do  hear  they  have 
good  dairy  farms  over  there,  though.  My  uncle  went 
over  with  some  cattle  to  a  show,  and  he  brought  back 
great  stories  of  how  they  managed  things  over  there. 
A  bit  old-fashioned,  their  ways,  it  seemed  to  me.  Don't 
go  in  for  machines  so  much  as  we  do,  I  understand; 
he  did  tell  me  he  saw  the  flail  used  when  he  was  there, 
but  I  didn't  like  to  believe  it.  It  seemed  a  little  too 
much  behind  the  times." 

"What  is  a  flail?" 

"For  thrashing  out  the  crops  by  hand,  I  mean." 

"Oh  yes,  I  understand.  I  have  often  seen  it  used. 
At  home  the  men  and  women,  too,  stand  in  a  circle 

140 


FIDDLER'S    GREEN  141 

and  thrash  out  the  buckwheat  with  long,  flat,  wooden 
sticks  on  leather  straps." 

"You  don't  mean  it !  Then  Uncle  Joe  was  right  after 
all.  Why,  here  we  just  wait  our  time  and  then  start 
the  engine  going,  and  the  whole  job  is  over  in  a  few 
days.  But  my  farm  is  mostly  pasture  land,  so  I  don't 
grow  much  besides  potatoes  and  roots  for  the  cattle. 
We've  a  fine  dairy,  and  my  mother  she's  a  rare  hand 
at  the  butter  making.  She  wins  prizes  most  years  at 
the  county  show,  and  deserves  it  well,  too.  She  takes 
a  lot  of  pains  with  her  dairy,  does  mother.  My  father 
and  his  father  before  him  always  lived  on  the  land  and 
kept  good  cattle.  Our  herd  has  a  good  name  in  these 
parts." 

Just  then  Frolic  danced  her  way  past  a  flock  of  sheep 
which  were  grazing  by  the  side  of  the  road.  It  was 
already  growing  dusk,  and  a  heavy  bank  of  clouds 
overhead  obscured  the  remaining  daylight.  The  mare 
was  pulling  hard  and  snuffing  the  air  as  though  she 
scented  the  good  corn  which  awaited  her  in  her 
comfortable  stable.  For  a  minute  Strong  had  his  work 
cut  out  to  keep  her  to  the  road. 

"Steady  then,  my  beauty!  "  he  said  soothingly,  "did 
you  never  see  sheep  before  ?  " 

"You'll  find  Fiddler's  Green  a  pretty  spot,"  he 
continued  presently.  "It  isn't  more  than  a  handful  of 
cottages,  a  bit  of  a  church  and  the  "  Fiddle  Inn  "  all 
bunched  together  on  the  green.  Miss  Leigh's — that 
stands  just  beyond.  'Tis  the  last  one  up  the  lane 
except  for  old  Major  Vasey's.  Now,  hold  tight,"  he 
added,  "there's  a  motor  coming,  and  Frolic  likes  a 
bit  of  a  dance." 

A  large  car,  travelling  very  fast,  was  coming  towards 
them,  and  the  mare,  as  she  saw  it,  threw  up  her  head 
and  pricked  her  ears.  Then,  without  the  slightest  warn- 
ing, she  stopped,  threw  herself  back  on  her  haunches 
so  abruptly,  that  had  it  not  been  for  the  young  man's 
warning  Barbara  must  have  been  precipitated  into  the 
road.  Strong  brought  the  whip  down  across  the  mare's 
back  with  the  full  strength  of  his  arm,  and  she  plunged 


142  A  DREAM   OF   BLUE   ROSES 

forward;  but  the  motor  was  level  with  them  now,  he 
was  unable  to  prevent  the  excited  animal  from  swerving 
on  to  the  grassy  verge.  There  was  a  bump  as  the  cart 
jolted  over  a  little  ditch,  and  Frolic  nearly  fell ;  but 
she  recovered  herself,  and  tore  along  the  road  as  if 
pursued  by  all  the  furies. 

"I  hope  you  were  not  frightened,"  said  Strong 
anxiously;  "it  is  really  only  her  play." 

"Not  in  the  least,  but  I  think  I  should  have  fallen 
out  if  you  had  not  told  me  to  hold  firm.  The  poor  pig 
seems  very  unhappy." 

"It  shook  him  up  a  bit,"  he  answered,  laughing, 
and  indeed  Piggy  was  bewailing  his  discomfort  in  loud 
and  piercing  squeals  which  had  the  result  of  urging 
Frolic  to  a  still  swifter  pace. 

Strong  leaned  forward.  "There's  something  wrong," 
he  said,  "she's  going  lame."  Indeed  it  soon  became 
evident  that  she  was  limping  badly.  "She's  torn  a 
shoe  off  over  that  grip,"  was  Strong's  verdict.  "If 
that  isn't  tiresome,  now!  I'm  afraid  we'll  have  to  stop 
at  the  forge  and  get  one  put  on.  I'm  truly  sorry  for 
the  delay,  but  if  Job  Way's  at  home  it  won't  take  more 
than  a  few  minutes." 

He  pulled  Frolic  into  a  walk,  not  a  difficult  task,  for 
the  little  animal  seemed  as  dejected  as  she  had  been 
gay  a  few  moments  before;  one  might  almost  have 
supposed  she  knew  her  folly  was  to  blame  for  the 
accident. 

The  forge  stood  at  the  cross-roads  some  few  hundred 
yards  further  on,  but  it  was  closed.  Strong  shouted, 
and  a  woman  came  out  of  a  cottage  adjoining. 

"Why,  Mr.  John,  is  that  you?"  she  said  heartily. 

"That's  me.  Is  Job  about?  I've  a  bit  of  work  for 
him,  and  don't  want  to  waste  time." 

"No,  that  he  ain't.  He  went  down  to  Ethel's  come 
dinner  time,  and  he  ain't  got  back.  Not  but  what  I 
expect  him  very  soon,  it  being  close  on  his  supper  time. 
He  won't  be  long,  that's  certain,  for  he  ain't  never 
one  to  miss  his  supper,  ain't  Job  !  " 

"  What    had    I    better    do,    do    you    think  ? "    asked 


FIDDLER'S   GREEN  14« 

Barbara   anxiously.     "  It's   getting    very    late.     Can    I 
not  walk  the  rest  of  the  way  ?  " 

John  strong  took  off  his  hat  and  rubbed  his  forehead 
with  a  gesture  of  vexation. 

"I  am  sorry,  mightily  sorry.  I  come  down  this  road 
times  and  times  every  week,  and  never  have  to  stop 
for  anything ;  and  just  to-night,  here  we  are,  hung 
up  as  you  might  say.  It  isn't  more  than  a  mile  to 
Fiddler's  Green  from  here,  and  you  can't  miss  your 
way  if  you'd  like  to  walk  it.  I  will  bring  on  your  box 
when  Job  has  finished  with  the  mare." 

"Then  I  will  walk,"  decided  Barbara;  "thank  you 
very  much." 

"You  go  straight  along  and  take  the  first  turn  to  the. 
left.  Go  right  across  the  Green  and  the  house  is  the 
first  in  the  lane  beyond.  I've  a  note  here  that  Mr. 
Poole  gave  me  for  Miss  Leigh ;  perhaps  you  would 
take  it  with  you,  in  case  it  is  late  before  I  come." 
Strong  produced  it  as  he  spoke.  "It  seems  too  bad 
that  you  should  have  to  step  the  last  bit  of  the  way," 
he  added  regretfully. 

Barbara  assured  him  that  she  did  not  mind  in  the 
least,  and  would  enjoy  the  walk. 

She  started  off,  but  in  a  minute  he  overtook  her.  "I 
wonder,"  he  said  rather  shyly,  "if  you  could  tell  me  if 
Mr.   Arkwright  has  a  sty  ?  " 

"  I  beg  your  pardon,"  said  Barbara,  at  a  loss  to 
understand  him. 

"Whether  he  has  a  pigsty,  I  mean,"  explained  the 
young  man.  "I  would  be  so  pleased  for  that  little 
lady  to  have  the  little  pig  she  fancied." 

"I  am  sure  she  would  be  delighted,"  said  Barbara, 
smiling,  "and  I  think  they  have  a  place  to  keep 
it." 

"Thank  you,"  he  said,  raising  his  cap.  "'Tis  a  funny 
little  beast,  and  I'd  like  her  to  have  it." 

Barbara  walked  along,  wondering  what  Molly's 
feelings  would  be  when  the  pink  pig  with  black  trousers 
was  added  to  their  establishment.  There  was  no  doubt 
that   Patsy   would  be  blissfully   happy.     What  a  day 


144  A   DREAM   OF   BLUE   ROSES 

of  surprises  it  had  been  !  How  little  she  had  thought 
when  she  went  to  bed  last  night  that  in  the  space  of 
a  few  short  hours  she  should  have  fallen  into  the  depths 
of  despair,  and  have  been  raised  again  to  high  hope  by 
a  second  chance  of  employment. 

She  shuddered  as  she  thought  again  of  the  horrible 
scene  of  the  morning,  and  her  heart  was  full  of  gratitude 
to  Philip  for  his  timely  rescue.  It  was  indeed  a  mercy 
that  he  had  arrived  so  opportunely,  and  still  more  a 
mercy  that  Petite  M^re  did  not  know  how  miserable 
she  had  been  at  Mrs.  Waghorn's.  Surely,  surely 
she  could  succeed  in  her  new  venture  !  Two  old  ladies 
did  not  sound  alarming,  and  she  would  show  them  how 
well  Petite  M^re  had  instructed  her  in  household 
matters.  What  was  happening  at  the  Pavilion  ?  And 
with  her  mind  back  among  the  scenes  she  loved  the 
way  did  not  seem  long.  She  crossed  the  Green,  and 
thanks  to  John  Strong's  explicit  directions  had  no 
difficulty  in  finding  the  house,  although  it  was  now  so 
dark  that  she  could  only  see  it  indistinctly,  and  had 
some  trouble  with  the  latch  of  the  gate. 

She  could  find  no  bell,  so  she  knocked  timidly  on  the 
door.  For  a  while  there  was  silence,  then  she  heard 
some  one  moving  within.  Then  silence.  She  knocked 
a  second  time  a  little  louder  than  before.  She  heard 
the  bolts  being  withdrawn,  and  at  last  the  door  was 
opened,  but  only  to  the  extent  of  a  few  inches. 

"Who  is  there?"  asked  a  quavering  voice. 

"It  is  Mr.  Poole  who  has  sent  me,"  replied  the  girl; 
"I  have  here  a  letter  for  Madame." 

Another  pause,  and  the  chain  which  held  the  door 
dropped  with  a  rattle,  and  it  opened  wider. 

A  little  old  lady  stood  on  the  threshold,  holding  a 
small  lamp  in  her  hand;  the  flickering  gleams  lit  up 
her  snow-white  hair  and  gentle  face.  She  looked  very 
pale,  and  the  hand  which  she  extended  for  the  letter 
was  shaking. 

Barbara  handed  her  the  note.  "Mr.  Poole  told  me 
that  you   required  some  one,"  she  began   haltingly. 

"I  do  not  understand,"  said  the  old  lady  in  bewilder- 


FIDDLER'S   GREEN  145 

ment,  and  Barbara  could  see  that  she  was  casting 
anxious  glances  towards  the  gate  as  she  spoke. 

"Will  you  not  read  the  letter,  Madame?"  she 
suggested. 

Miss  Leigh  stood  the  lamp  on  _a  little  shelf  beside 
the  door  and  tore  open  the  envelope,  while  the  girl 
waited  in  silence. 

"I  do  not  understand — there  is  some  mistake,  I  am 
afraid,"  Miss  Leigh  said  nervously.  "I  required  a 
servant,  not  a " 

"Will  you  not  let  me  try,  Madame,  I  assure  you 
that  I  can  do  all  that  will  be  required.  Mr.  Poole  has 
fully  explained  your  desires." 

"But — "  the  old  lady  faltered,  "it  is  not  a  position 
suited  to.  ...  I  want  some  one  who  can  cook  and 
attend  to  the  household  matters " 

"This  I  can  well  do,  Madame,"  urged  Barbara  des- 
perately; what  should  she  do  if  Miss  Leigh  would  not 
even  let  her  make  the  attempt?  "I  have  all  my  life 
been  accustomed  to  these  things,  and  I  assure  you 
that  I  would  do  my  very  best " 

A  sound  in  the  lane  beyond  interrupted  her.  The 
sound  of  a  man's  voice,  singing  loudly,  hilariously, 
and  not  over  steadily — 

"  Of  all  the  wives  as  e'er  you  know, — O — O — O — 
Yeo,  ho  !    lads,  ho  !     Yeo,  ho  !  lads,  ho  ! " 

To  the  girl's  surprise  a  look  of  positive  terror  came 
across  Miss  Leigh's  face;  she  turned  ashen  white  and 
swayed  where  she  stood ;  but  the  next  minute  she 
recovered, herself,  and  making  a  quick  step  forward,  she 
grasped  Barbara's  arm  and  pulled  her  inside  the  little 
hall. 

"Come  in,  come  in  !  "  she  said  hoarsely. 

Then,  with  trembling  hands,  she  hastily  shut  the 
door,  pushed  home  the  bolts  and  attached  the  chain, 
then  stood  with  her  back  against  it,  white  but  deter- 
mined. 

The   sounds   came    nearer,    perfectly   audible   in    the 


146  A  DREAM  OF   BLUE   ROSES 

silence  of  the  night.  They  seemed  to  pause  at  the 
gate,  and  Barbara  could  see  the  old  lady's  face  grow 
more  and  more  strained.  Then  came  another  voice, 
raised  in  tones  of  argument  and  persuasion,  and  finally 
the  singing  recommenced  and  died  away  as  the  singer 
proceeded  slowly  up  the  lane. 

The  two  women  stood  without  speaking  until  the 
last  echo  faded,  Barbara  wondering  what  could  be  the 
reason  that  the  song  of  some  passing  reveller  should 
have  the  power  to  cause  so  great  an  alarm,  for  the 
look  in  the  old  lady's  eyes  had  been  quite  unmistakably 
terror,  and  even  now  her  breath  was  coming  quickly 
and  unevenly.  It  was  quite  impossible  that  any  one 
could  enter  with  the  door  so  closely  bolted  and  barred — 
what  could  it  be?  But  she  forgot  the  occurrence  the 
next  minute  in  her  anxiety  as  to  what  was  going  to 
befall  her.  It  was  impossible  for  her  to  return  to  the 
"White   House"   that  night. 

Miss  Leigh  reached  for  the  lamp  from  the  shelf. 

"Come  in,"  she  said,  speaking  quietly  and  kindly 
although  her  voice  still  shook  a  little.  "I  am  glad  you 
are  here,  although  I  am  afraid  you  have  been  misled, 
and  your  expectations  will  be  disappointed.  But  Mr. 
Poole  has  sent  you,  and  I  am  thankful  that  some  one 
is  here  to-night  at  any  rate.  My  sister  has  already 
retired;  she  is  not  very  strong,  and  we  are  both  inclined 
to  be  foolishly  nervous,  I  fear." 

It  seemed  to  Barbara  that  she  was  trying  to  excuse 
her  agitation  of  the  previous  moment. 

"I  have  always  lived  in  the  country,  and  I  am  not 
in  the  least  nervous  of  anything." 

"You  are  fortunate,"  said  the  old  lady,  with  a  smile 
that  struck  the  girl  as  very  sad.  "You  did  not  walk 
from  St.  Ethel's?" 

"No,  Mr.  Strong  brought  me  in  his  cart,  but  his 
horse  lost  a  shoe,  and  I  walked  the  rest  of  the  way. 
He  will  bring  my  box  when  he  leaves  the  black- 
smith's." 

Miss  Leigh  led  the  way  into  a  small  parlour,  but  as 
she  did  so  there  was  a  knock  at  the  door,  and  Strong 


FIDDLER'S  GREEN  147 

himself  could  be  heard  calling.  Another  minute  and 
he  stood  within. 

"I  JDegan  to  wonder  whether  you  were  all  in  bed," 
he  said  in  his  cheery  way.  "Will  you  show  me  the 
room,  and  I'll  just  run  this  upstairs  for  you.  I'm  very 
sorry  the  young  lady  had  to  walk.  You've  a  great 
big  chain  on  your  door,  ma'am ;  you  are  safe  against 
burglars  !  " 

"  Women  living  alone  are  apt  to  be  timid,  Mr. 
Strong,"  replied  the  old  lady,  with  gentle  dignity. 
Then,  as  he  returned  down  the  stairs  :  "  Your  mother 
is  well,  I  trust  ?  " 

"Thank  you,  she's  finely.  She  would  have  sent 
her  respects,  I  am  sure,  had  she  known  I'd  be  seeing 
you." 

"  I  am  sorry  you  should  have  had  the  trouble " 

"Don't  mention  it.  Miss  Anne,  don't  mention 
it !  "  said  John  Strong  heartily.  "  Good-night, 
ladies." 

After  his  departure  Miss  Leigh  secured  the  door  with 
the  same  care  as  before,  and  then  preceded  Barbara  into 
the  kitchen. 

"You  will  be  glad  of  a  cup  of  tea,  I  expect,"  she 
said,  and  busied  herself  with  the  preparations.  "Mrs. 
Dodge  has  been  helping  me  to-day,  but  she  has  gone 
home,  so  we  are  quite  alone.  She  will  come  again  in 
the  morning." 

Barbara  felt  a  pang  that  was  half  sorrow,  half  joy, 
as  she  gazed  around  her.  She  could  almost  have 
imagined  that  she  had  been  transported  by  some 
miraculous  agency  to  the  little  home  at  Le  Petit  Andely. 
The  kitchen  was  just  the  same  size  and  shape,  and  the 
resemblance  was  still  further  increased  by  the  familiar 
utensils  of  copper  and  brass  which  hung  on  the  walls. 
She  could  almost  see  'Toinette  in  her  blue  check  apron 
stretching  up  her  hand  to  take  a  saucepan  from  the 
shelf !  Even  the  pattern  of  red  and  white  on  the  table- 
cloth was  the  same.  Barbara  knew  it  well  enough ;  had 
she  not  learnt  her  first  numerals  by  the  aid  of  those  red 
and  white  squares? 

L  2 


148  A  DREAM  OF   BLUE   ROSES 

Presently  she  became  aware  that  Miss  Leigh  was 
speaking,  and  her  thoughts  came  back  with  ai  start. 

"Pardon,  Madame!  "  she  said,  "but  for  a  moment  I 
thought  I  was  again  at  home." 

"Why  was  that?" 

"Yours  has  all  the  air  of  a  French  kitchen.  We 
have  even  a  pair  of  brass  candlesticks  exactly  like  those, 
chez  nous." 

"  You  have  lived  in  France  ?  " 

"But  always  I  have  lived  in  France,  and  if  Madame 
wishes  the  household  arranged  as  we  have  it  there,  I 
can  satisfy  her,  I  know." 

Miss  Leigh  looked  at  her  curiously,  as  she  wondered 
what  the  circumstances  could  be  that  forced  this  girl 
of  undoubtedly  gentle  birth  to  seek  occupation  which 
seemed  so  unsuited  to  her.  But  she  found  something 
very  winning  in  the  eagerne;SS  with  which  Barbara 
strove  to  reassure  her  as  to  her  capabilities. 

"I,  too,  have  lived  in  France — in  Normandy,  for 
many  years,  and  the  things  which  you  see  came  with 
us  to  England  when  we  moved  our  home.  My  good 
Marie,  who  was  my  servant  for  so  long,  took  a  great 
pride  in  keeping  everything  beautifully  neat  and 
spotless,  but  alas  !  I  fear  that  since  her  departure  all 
has  not  been  as  it  should  be  !  The  tea  is  ready  now  ; 
will  you  sit  down,  if  you  please,  and  perhaps  you  will 
tell  me  how  it  is  that  you  are  willing  to  come  to  me." 

Barbara  repeated  what  she  had  told  Mr.  Poole — 
how  it  was  necessary  that  she  should  support  herself, 
that  she  did  not  possess  the  proper  qualifications  for 
teaching,  and  so  on.  "If  Madame  will  but  give  me 
her  instructions,"  she  said  in  conclusion,  "and  forget 
that  it  is  not  Marie  to  whom  she  speaks,  I  am  sure 
Madame  will  have  every  satisfaction." 

Miss  Leigh  looked  doubtful  and  troubled.  The  whole 
matter  was  so  unusual,  and  she  was  rather  afraid  of 
anything  unusual. 

"You  would  find  it  a  very  dull  life,"  she  said  after  a 
minute  of  reflection,  "and  I  am  afraid  you  would  soon 
tire  of  it.    I  should  not  like  you  to "    She  paused  in 


FIDDLER'S   GREEN  149 

some  perplexity.  But  the  girl  before  her  looked  at  her 
with  imploring  eyes  and  refused  to  be  daunted. 

"I  shall  not  tire  of  it,  Madame,  indeed  I  shall  not 
tire  of  it.  Nor  shall  I  find  it  dull.  The  only  thing  that 
I  would  ask  of  you  is  that  occasionally  I  should  be 
allowed  to  visit  my  friends  the  Arkwrights;  they  have 
been  very  kind  to  me.  I  would  see  to  it  that  my  absence 
should  not  in  any  way  inconvenience  you." 

"I  should  not  think  there  could  be  any  objection  to 
that." 

"In  all  ways  I  will  be  to  you  as  Marie,  if  you  will 
only  let  me  try." 

The  old  lady  rose.  It  was  difficult  to  raise  further 
objections  in  the  face  of  the  girl's  gentle  persistence. 

"Very  well,"  she  said.  "Since  Mr.  Poole  iias  sent 
you,  I  am  willing  that  you  should  try." 


CHAPTER    XVII 

THE   SISTERS 

"A  wee  bit  hoose  and  garden  neat, 
Wi'  bushes  green  and  roses  sweet." 

Samuel  Dodge,  one  time  A.B.  in  Her  Majesty's 
Navy,  but  now  odd  job  man  to  Fiddler's  Green,  straight- 
ened himself  as  much  as  possible,  for  his  back  was 
permanently  bowed,  and  passed  the  back  of  his  hand 
across  his  heated  brow.  "Well,  ma'am"  (he  pro- 
nounced it  "well'um!"  and  it  was  his  invariable  way 
of  opening  a  conversation),  "well'um,  'twas  this  way! 
'tis  them  dratted  mice  as  has  taken  my  whole  fine  row 
of  peas;  and  seein'  as  they're  gone,  t'ain't  no  manner 
of  use  makin'  trouble  about  'em,  but  says  I  to  myself, 
I'll  just  set  another." 

Barbara  laughed,  a  fresh,  ringing  laugh.  "They  are 
always  greedy,  the  mice,  but  the  seeds  will  grow  quickly 
in  this  lovely  weather.  The  ground  is  just  right  for 
them." 

"Well'um,  that  might  be  better,  and  then,  again,  that 
might  be  worse.  "T'ain't  in  the  nature  of  things  that 
the  sun  and  the  rain  should  come  just  as  we  want  it. 
Where  the  seeds  is  askin'  for  a  bit  o'  wet,  the  blossom's 
askin'  for  a  bit  o'  sun,  so  there  ye  are !  "  the  old  man 
chuckled  softly.  "Well'um,  an'  how  many  eggs  might 
you  have  the  day  ?  " 

"Seven,  Sammle,"  answered  the  girl — every  one  called 
him  Sammle.  "And  the  big  grey  hen  is  wanting  to 
sit.  Where  can  we  get  some  eggs  for  her?  Do 
you  think  it  would  be  better  not  to  set  her  on  her 
own  ?  " 

Sammle  Dodge  removed  his  battered  hat,  and  rubbed 
his  round,  bald  head  with  a  reflective  thumb. 

ISO 


THE   SISTERS  151 

"Weirum,  there's  Mrs.  Strong,  she's  a  wonderful 
fine  lot  o'  chicken,  and  there's  Mrs.  Green  up  the  lane, 
maybe  she'd  be  willin'  to  change  a  settin'  o'  her'n  for 
a  settin'  o'  ourn.  Likely  she  would,  if  you  was  to  ask 
her,  but  if  you  go — well'um,  you'll  just  have  to  be  firm, 
for  Mrs.  Green,  she's  one  o'  them  as  you  never  know 
what  they  will  do  !  First,  she'll  say  she  will,  and  then 
she'll  say  she  won't;  she's  widdy-waddy,  Mrs.  Green, 
that's  what  she  is !  But  you  just  march  up  to  her,  and 
shout,  for  she's  as  deaf  as  a  haddock,  and  say,  '  Mrs. 
Green,  I've  brought  thirteen  o'  my  eggs,  and  I'll  thank 
you  for  thirteen  o'  yourn,'  bold-like,  and  you'll  get  them 
all  right." 

"Where  does  she  live?  I'll  go  and  see  her  this 
afternoon." 

"Well'um,  you  go  up  the  lane,  and  when  you've  gone 
a  bit  o'  half-a-mile  you'll  see  a  spur  way  on  your  right 
side;  you  go  alonger  that,  and  you'll  come  to  Mrs. 
Green's." 

Barbara  thanked  him  as  he  resumed  his  hoe  and  his 
occupation  of  making  a  neat  little  trench  to  receive  the 
seeds,  and  turning  towards  the  house,  she  walked  up 
the  little  box-edged  path,  singing  to  herself  as  she  went. 
At  the  end  of  the  path  she  met  Miss  Margaret. 

The  younger  Miss  Leigh  was  in  every  way  a  contrast 
to  her  sister,  for  whereas  "Miss  Anne,"  as  the  elder  lady 
was  usually  called  by  her  neighbours  on  Fiddler's 
Green,  was  prim  and  precise  and  severely  neat  in  her 
appearance,  Miss  Margaret's  fancy  ran  to  frills  and 
ribbons,  and  a  style  of  dress  hardly  suitable  to  her 
age. 

Miss  Anne  wore  her  silver  hair  plainly  banded  on 
either  side  of  her  gentle  white  face,  which  was  of  that 
pale  ivory  tint  which  comes  with  advanced  years,  and 
on  her  head  she  wore  a  little  lace  cap,  guiltless  of  ribbon 
or  gay  adornment.  Her  dress  was  always  black,  woollen 
for  every  day  and  silk  for  Sundays,  relieved  at  the 
neck  by  a  spotless  embroidered  collar,  and  fastened 
at  the  throat  with  a  large  round  brooch  of  coloured 
mosaic  mounted  in  fine  gold.     Her  gowns  were  made 


152  A   DREAM   OF   BLUE   ROSES 

regardless  of  the  present  mode ;  she  had  probably  not 
altered  the  style  of  them  for  forty  years,  but  she  looked 
what  she  was,  a  gentle,  kind  and  rather  timid  old  lady. 

Miss  Margaret,  on  the  other  hand,  although  only  the 
junior  of  her  sister  by  something  under  ten  years,  was 
extremely  juvenile  in  demeanour.  Her  hair,  which  had 
been  very  fair,  and  which,  although  scanty  now,  showed 
little  trace  of  silver,  was  curled  and  looped  and  twisted 
into  wonderful  curls  on  the  top  of  her  head.  Her  face 
was  very  free  from  wrinkles,  and  she  had  pale  china- 
blue  eyes  and  a  pretty  high  colour  in  her  round  cheeks. 
She  wore,  whenever  the  season  permitted,  and  frequently 
when  it  did  not,  white  dresses,  cut  very  full  in  the  skirt, 
and  edged  at  the  feet  with  three  frills.  On  her  small 
feet  she  wore  white  stockings  and  low  black  shoes  with- 
out heels,  attached  with  a  narrow  elastic  crossed  over 
the  instep.  Under  her  chin  she  loved  to  place  a  bow 
of  pale-blue  silk  ribbon,  because  she  thought  it  matched 
her  eyes.  Her  hands,  which  betrayed  her  age  more  than 
anything  else  about  her,  were  adorned  with  many  rings, 
all  of  small  value  and  of  considerable  antiquity.  She 
was  a  harmless  soul.  Miss  Margaret;  very  simple,  per- 
haps even  a  little  childish,  and  spent  most  of  her  time 
arranging  the  little  adornments  of  ribbon  and  frills 
which  her  heart  delighted  in.  Time  had  stood  still  for 
her,  and  she  was  quite  unable  to  realize  that  she  was  no 
longer  a  girl.  As  a  rule,  she  was  very  happy,  but  at 
times  she  suffered  from  fits  of  depression  and  weeping, 
and  during  these  attacks  Miss  Anne  would  nurse  her 
and  soothe  her  with  unfailing  patience  and  tenderness, 
as  if  she  was  indeed  the  child  she  sometimes  thought 
herself. 

She  stepped  up  the  path  with  a  little  mincing  step, 
strangely  reminiscent  of  the  dancing  class,  with  a  small 
basket  on  her  arm  and  a  trowel  in  her  hand. 

"Barbara,"  she  said  gleefully,  "it  is  such  a  lovely 
morning,  I  have  come  to  sow  some  more  of  my  flowers. 
My  white  daisies !  They  are  my  favourites,  you  know, 
because  they  are  my  name  flowers." 

"Yes,  Miss  Margaret.     Where  are  you  going  to  sow 


THE   SISTERS  158 

them  ?  I  do  not  think  you  have  much  more  room  in 
your  garden." 

The  little  old  lady  looked  distressed.  "I  am  afraid  it 
is  rather  full,"  she  said  sadly.  "I  suppose  there  is  not 
some  other  place  where  I  could  sow  them  ?  Anne  is 
vexed  with  me  sometimes  when  she  thinks  I  have  too 
many  of  them." 

If  Miss  Margaret  had  had  her  way,  the  whole  garden 
would  have  been  given  up  to  the  large  white  daisies 
that  she  loved,  to  the  exclusion  even  of  vegetables  and 
herbs.  Miss  Anne  had  marked  out  a  portion  of  ground 
for  her,  but  that  was  already  full,  and  there  was  no 
stratagem  to  which  Miss  Margaret  would  not  resort  to 
find  other  places  unbeknown  to  her  sister. 

When  they  came  to  the  appointed  place,  there  was  no 
doubt  whatever  that  it  was  impossible  to  sow  any  more 
seed.  The  plot  was  entirely  taken  up  with  neat  patches, 
laced  over  with  black  sewing  cotton  to  protect  it  from 
the  birds.     Miss  Margaret  was  on  the  point  of  tears. 

"  Where  can  I  put  them  ?  "  she  said  sadly.  "  I  have 
three  more  packets." 

"  I  have  an  idea  !  We  can  make  a  little  row  behind 
the  parsley,  along  the  top  path,"  said  Barbara  brightly. 
"It  will  be  pretty  to  have  a  line  of  white  flowers  there. 
Shall  I  make  the  row  ready  for  you  to  sow  the  seed  ?  " 

Miss  Margaret  gave  her  the  trowel  and  clasped  her 
hands  ecstatically.  "Oh,  thank  you  !  thank  you  !  "  she 
murmured.  "Daisies!  they  are  so  beautiful!  But," 
she  went  on  dreamily,  "it  is  a  long  time  since  any  one 
has  called  me  Daisy  !  I  do  not  think  my  sister  approves 
of  it.  She  always  calls  me  Margaret.  My  nephew 
sometimes  calls  me  Aunt  Daisy.  He  knows  it  pleases 
me. 

"It  is  a  very  pretty  name,"  answered  Barbara,  looking 
up  from  her  task  of  turning  over  the  fragrant  brown 
earth,  to  make  a  resting-place  for  the  little  lady's 
treasures. 

"It  is  a  very  pretty  name.  I  was  always  called  Daisy 
at  home.  My  mother  called  me  Daisy — and  some  one 
else  too."      A  rosy  blush  suffused  her  cheeks  as  she 


154  A  DREAM   OF  BLUE   ROSES 

spoke.  "Some  one  else  called  me  Daisy — it  is  such  a 
tender,  sweet  name,  I  often  repeat  it  to  myself — his 
name  was  Henry !  That  is  a  beautiful  name  too,  is  it 
not?" 

"Now,"  said  Barbara  kindly,  "I  have  made  the  row, 
I  will  leave  you  to  do  the  rest.  Will  you  call  me  if  you 
want  me  ?  " 

"Oh,  thank  you,  you  are  very  kind  !  " 

The  girl  walked  away,  wondering  what  Miss  Margaret 
would  do  when  the  season  for  sowing  was  over.  How 
would  she  have  the  patience  to  wait  until  they  flowered? 
Barbara  had  yet  to  learn  that  the  little  lady  examined 
the  progress  of  each  tender  shoot  that  pushed  its  venture- 
some nose  through  the  soft  brown  earth,  with  such 
zealous  attention  that  not  one  plant  in  twenty  survived 
her  ministrations  and  arrived  at  its  full  stature.  Which 
was,  perhaps,  all  the  better  for  the  garden,  since,  as 
Miss  Anne  said,  a  garden  should  contain  other  things 
than  white  daisies. 

The  girl  set  her  eggs  down  in  the  larder,  and  then 
passing  into  the  kitchen,  sat  down  in  the  high-backed 
chair  by  the  open  window,  and  took  a  letter  from  her 
pocket.  She  had  already  read  it  once,  but  it  con- 
tained good  news,  and  one  cannot  read  good  news  too 
often . 

Petite  M^re  wrote  regularly,  twice  every  week,  letters 
full  of  loving  concern  and  interest,  telling  every  detail 
of  the  quiet  life  which  could  not  fail  to  cheer  and  com- 
fort the  absent  loved  one.  This  time  she  had  a  great 
piece  of  news  to  relate.  It  appeared  that  her  niece,  who 
had  but  lately  lost  her  husband,  had  written  to  suggest 
that  she  should  come  to  spend  the  summer  at  the 
Pavilion  with  her  little  boy.  She  had  been  left  with 
a  comfortable  income,  but  dreaded  the  idea  of  commenc- 
ing her  life  alone  amongst  strangers,  and,  therefore,  if 
Petite  M^re  could  receive  her,  she  was  only  too  willing 
to  pay  a  more  than  adequate  sum  weekly  towards  the 
additional  expenses  of  the  little  household.  This  meant, 
as  Petite  M^re  explained,  that  she  and  Melanie  would  be 
relieved  from  the  necessity  of  such  rigorous  economy 


THE   SISTERS  155 

as  they  had  been  recently  obliged  to  exercise.  But, 
before  accepting  the  offer,  she  wished  to  have  Babette's 
opinion  upon  it.  Was  La  Petite  well  placed  and  happy  ? 
Had  she  heard  anything  further  as  to  gaining  posses- 
sion of  her  fortune  ?  and,  above  all,  was  there  any 
likelihood  of  her  returning  home  shortly  ?  For  in  the 
latter  event,  the  proposal  of  "  Ma  niece  "  would  go  for 
nothing.  If,  however,  Babette  did  not  contemplate 
returning  for  some  months,  there  was  no  doubt  that  the 
arrangement  would  be  a  convenient  one. 

The  girl  laid  the  letter  down  on  the  table  in  front  of 
her,  and  leaning  her  chin  on  her  hands,  looked  out  on 
the  sunshine.  The  trees  in  the  little  orchard  were  just 
bursting  into  blossom,  and  underneath  them  tall  daffodils 
and  narcissus  waved  their  yellow  heads  above  the  fresh 
green  grass.  The  air  was  full  of  the  twittering  of  the 
birds  and  fragrant  with  the  scent  of  spring.  Just  so 
would  the  gnarled  old  trees  in  the  orchard  at  home  be 
breaking  into  flower,  just  so  would  the  hum  of  the  bees 
rise  like  a  tender  melody  on  the  still,  quiet  air.  The 
hortensier  in  the  round  bed  before  the  door  would  be 
showing  traces  of  pink  blossom  among  its  tender  green 
foliage.  Her  heart  yearned  to  it  all,  and  a  mist  of  home- 
sickness floated  for  a  moment  before  her  eyes.  She 
brushed  it  away  hastily.  Was  she  to  feel  regret  now 
when  she  was  getting  on  so  well  ?  Could  she  think  of 
turning  back  now,  of  playing  the  coward  without 
reason  ?  Certainly  not !  It  was  only  that  for  a  moment 
the  picture  of  home,  which  had  risen  before  her,  had 
drawn  her  as  with  a  magnet.  What  happiness  it  would 
be  to  see  the  little  home  again  !  But,  as  P^re  Joseph  had 
been  wont  to  say,  "All  may  not  know  happiness,  but  all 
may  know  content."  And  since  she  could  not  be  where 
her  heart  flew  with  her  thoughts,  she  would  be  content 
here.  Since  she  might  not  go  with  Petite  M^re  to  find 
the  fairies,  no  life  apart  from  her  could  be  more  con- 
genial than  her  present  one.  She  would  not  think  of 
returning,  decidedly  not !  Decidedly  it  would  be  well 
for  Petite  M^re  to  have  "Ma  niece,"  and  be  spared  the 
galling  fret  of  poverty.     She  was  quite  content  here — 


156  A   DREAM   OF   BLUE   ROSES 

she  blinked  away  a  tear  that  had  risen  all  undesired, 
with  a  quick,  determined  gesture — she  would  write  now, 
at  once,  and  have  done  with  all  regretting.  And  this 
afternoon  she  would  go  to  Mrs.  Green's  in  search  of 
the  setting  of  eggs. 

There  was  plenty  of  space  in  the  orchard  for  fowls, 
and  she  already  had  plans  in  her  mind  by  which  she 
would  make  a  success  of  her  poultry  here,  just  as  she 
had  done  at  home,  and  assure  to  the  old  ladies  a  good 
supply  of  chicken  and  eggs. 

In  all  such  matters  she  had  soon  discovered  that  Miss 
Anne  would  give  her  free  leave  to  do  as  she  liked,  and, 
in  truth,  never  could  any  one  have  been  more  easy  to 
serve  or  to  satisfy.  The  wants  of  the  sisters  were  simple 
and  few,  and  Barbara's  strong,  willing  hands  made  light 
of  what  had  to  be  done.  For  the  rougher  work  there 
was  always  Mrs.  Dodge  to  help  her.  She  had  speedily 
arranged  her  household  affairs  according  to  the  prin- 
ciples that  'Toinette  had  early  inculcated.  Certain  tasks 
to  be  performed  each  day,  certain  rooms  to  receive  par- 
ticular attention  through  the  week,  and  on  Friday  all 
the  brasses  and  coppers  to  be  burnished,  so  that  as  the 
good  soul  had  always  declared,  "Their  faces  should  shine 
bright  for  Le  Bon  Dieu,  le  dimanche." 

And  on  Saturday  the  market.  Barbara  always 
enjoyed  the  market. 

She  walked  in  with  her  basket  upon  her  arm,  made 
her  purchases,  and  paid  a  visit  to  Molly,  and  then  found 
some  one  to  give  her  a  lift  back  again  towards  evening. 
On  the  last  two  Saturdays  it  had  been  John  Strong  who 
had  brought  her  back  to  the  Green  in  his  high  dog- 
cart, with  the  mettlesome  Frolic  in  the  shafts. 

The  old  ladies  had  few  visitors :  occasionally  Major 
Vasey,  who  lived  in  the  cottage  up  the  lane,  dropped  in 
to  see  Miss  Anne,  but  he  did  not,  as  a  rule,  stay  long. 
Barbara  gathered  that  he  was  an  old  friend,  but  up  to 
the  present  Miss  Margaret  had  not  mentioned  him, 
and  Miss  Anne  was  not  inclined  to  be  expansive  in 
conversation. 

He  was  a  mild,  quiet  old  man,  with  light  grey  eyes 


THE   SISTERS  157 

and  a  white  moustache,  the  ends  of  which  hung  down 
limply,  giving  to  his  face  a  curious,  melancholy  expres- 
sion. Barbara  had  noticed  that  after  his  visits  Miss 
Anne's  usually  pale  face  was  wont  to  be  flushed  and  her 
mouth  a  little  tremulous,  and  once  or  twice  she  had 
wondered  whether  they  had  been  lovers  long  ago  in 
their  youth,  and  if  that  had  been  the  case,  why  they  had 
not  married.  She  had,  girlishly,  woven  a  little  romance 
about  the  old  couple,  a  romance  for  which  she  had  to 
confess  she  had  no  foundation. 

The  only  other  visitor  had  been  Mr.  Poole,  who  had 
come  some  few  days  after  her  arrival  to  inquire  whether 
all  was  well  with  her  and  with  the  ladies.  He  had  been 
pressed  for  time,  and  had  not  stayed  long. 

She  wrote  her  letter,  and  then  with  it  in  her  hand  ran 
out  into  the  garden  to  ask  old  Sammle  to  drop  it  in  the 
pillar-box  at  the  corner  of  the  Green  as  he  went  home  to 
his  dinner. 

"Well'um,"  said  this  worthy,  "I'll  post  it,  that  I  will; 
not  but  what  I  could  never  see  the  use  in  writing  letters." 

"Don't  you  ever  write  a  letter?"  asked  Barbara, 
smiling.  Sammle's  quaint  ideas  and  his  curious  phrase- 
ology, which  she  sometimes  found  very  hard  to  under- 
stand, always  amused  her. 

"Well'um,  I  can't  say  as  ever  I  did,"  he  replied, 
removing  his  hat  and  rubbing  the  top  of  his  bald  head. 
"Never  had  no  reason  to,  and  mor'n  that,  couldn't  have 
if  I'd  wanted  ever  so,  me  bein'  what  they  call  illegitimate, 
never  havin'  larned  to  read  or  write  I  " 

"So  you  have  never  read  the  papers?" 

"No,  but  missis,  she  reads  finely,  and  she  reads  'em 
to  me  of  an  evening.  Great  stories  she  reads  out  o'  the 
papers.  But  there,  half  on  'em  ain't  true,  as  I  often 
tells  her.  Missus,  she  thinks  that  all  they  print  must 
be  true.  But  I  know  better'n  that !  I  ain't  to  be  so 
easily  took  in,  not  by  the  pictures  even,  though  I  can 
see  them,  if  I  can't  read  or  write.  Reading  don't  help 
you  to  tend  a  garden  !  No  !  Nor  yet  to  haul  a  rope, 
or  serve  a  gun,  though  I  do  hear  they  have  no  sailors 
now  that  ain't  got  learning.     T'were   different  in   my 


168  A  DREAM  OF  BLUE  ROSES 

time,  thanks  be!  We  didn't  have  no  schooHng,  or  if 
we  did,  'twere  mighty  little  and  soon  forgot,  and  when 
I  went  to  sea  what  they  wanted  you  for  to  know,  they 
lamed  you  with  a  rope's  end.  Aye,  and  that  at  the 
proper  end  to  lam  a  boy  at.  No  boy,  as  ever  I  know, 
could  larn  with  his  head  alone.  If  you  wanted  to  fix  a 
bit  of  knowledge,  'twould  be  safer  to  begin  at  t'other 
end !  "  The  old  man  chuckled,  as  though  delighted 
with  his  own  wit. 

"Well'um,"  he  continued,  shifting  his  position 
slightly,  and  leaning  upon  the  handle  of  his  hoe,  "  I 
says  to  myself,  I  says,  these  days  what  we're  livin'  in 
now  is  mighty  soft  days.  You  ask  those  as  is  mothers 
and  fathers  now,  and  you'll  hear  'em  say,  they  won't 
have  their  Sammy  nor  their  Billy  walloped  in  school ! 
They  won't  have  no  schoolmaster  a-touchin'  of  their 
precious  !  But  when  all's  said  and  done,  those  boys  as 
hasn't  caught  it  sharp  won't  be  worth  nothing  when 
they  do  grow  up.  Lor,  no,  no.  I  mind  me  well  when 
my  grandson,  my  eldest  son's  boy,  lived  with  me  when 
his  father  was  with  his  regiment  in  India,  my  grandson, 
Jimmy,  he  ran  away  and  joined  the  Milisha  as  a  band- 
boy.  Mighty  fond  of  music  Jimmy  was  !  Well'um,  he 
went,  and  for  a  long  time  I  didn't  know  what  had  come 
to  him.  And  then  one  day  there  comes  a  letter  from 
the  Colonel,  saying  as  Jimmy  has  been  a  bad  boy,  and 
might  he  give  him  a  thrashin'  ?  Seems  in  these  days 
they  can't  give  no  thrashin'  without  the  consent  of  the 
parent,  and  seein'  as  Jimmy's  father  was  in  India,  they 
wrote  to  me.  Missus  read  the  letter,  and  lor,  she  was 
in  a  fine  takin'.  But  I  jest  put  it  in  my  pocket  and 
went  down  to  Mr.  Dodd,  him  what  kept  the  '  Fiddler  '  at 
that  time,  and  I  says  to  him,  says  I,  '  Just  you  get  a 
pen  and  a  bit  o'  paper,  and  write  a  bit  o'  summat  for 
me.*  Well'um,  he  sits  him  down  and  squares  up  his 
shoulders,  as  though  his  pen  was  a  dirk  and  his  paper 
the  witals  of  his  enemy,  and  him  goin'  for  to  stab  him  ! 
'  Come  on,'  says  he,  '  I'm  ready  !  ' 

"An'  this  was  what  he  wrote,  as  I  told  him. 

" '  Since  my  Jimmy  'as  joined  the  Milisha  without  my 


THE   SISTERS  159 

consent,  let  him  have  it !  Sammle  Dodge,  his  mark.' 
Ay,  that  was  it,  and  I  put  my  cross  to  it,  plain  for  all  to 
see,  and  into  the  box  it  went.  Lor,  you  should  have 
heard  how  I  got  it  from  the  missus,  when  I  told  her 
what  I  done !  She  was  partial  to  Jimmy,  was  the 
missus !  " 

"Where  is  he  now?" 

"A  servin'  of  his  king  and  country  with  the  Royal 
Horse  Artillery.  He's  turned  out  well,  has  Jimmy. 
Well'um,  have  you  ever  noticed  that  women  as  was 
sharp  enough  with  their  own,  and  could  lay  it  into  their 
own  children  with  the  best,  is  just  as  soft  as  butter  when 
it  comes  to  grandchilder  ?  " 

"I  cannot  say  that  I  have." 

"Well'um,  that's  so!  That  it  is,  soft  as  butter!  If 
I  can't  read  nor  write,  I  can  understand  'uman  natur. 
That's  my  book,  that  is,  and  I  lams  quite  a  lot  from  it 
at  times,  that  I  do." 

He  moistened  his  horny  palm  preparatory  to  continu- 
ing his  labours,  and  chuckled  again.  "Well'um,  I'll 
post  your  letter,  since  you've  wrote  it,  but  if  you  would 
be  larned  by  me,  you'd  find  that  there  was  more  trouble 
in  this  world  caused  by  the  writin'  o'  letters  than  by  any 
spoken  word.  I  don't  hold  with  letter  writin',  and  I'm 
old  enough  to  know  that  what  I  says  is  true." 

As  Barbara  re-entered  the  house.  Miss  Anne  met  her. 

"What  were  you  thinking  of  doing  this  afternoon? 
Are  you  busy  ?  " 

"No,  I  am  not  busy.  Miss  Anne,  and  I  was  thinking 
of  going  up  to  Mrs.  Green's  to  see  if  I  could  get  a  setting 
of  eggs  from  her ;  the  big  grey  hen  is  ready  to  set." 

"Oh,  is  she?"  asked  Miss  Anne,  in  a  tone  of  voice 
which  suggested  that  the  fact  was  one  which  it  was 
rather  unsuitable  to  mention.  "I  thought,  perhaps,  that 
if  you  were  not  busy  you  would  like  to  go  and  see  your 
friends  this  afternoon,  for  I  am  afraid  I  shall  not  be  able 
to  spare  you  on  Saturday,  as  I  have  just  heard  from  my 
nephew  that  he  proposes  to  pay  us  a  visit  on  Monday, 
and  there  will  be  many  preparations  to  be  made  for  his 
arrival." 


160  A  DREAM   OF   BLUE   ROSES 

"  Thank  you ;  I  shall  be  very  glad  to  go  this  after- 
noon, and  I  will  go  early  to  market  on  Saturday,  so  that 
I  shall  be  home  in  time  to  do  what  is  necessary." 

Miss  Anne  looked  troubled.  "It  is  not  easy  to  pro- 
vide all  that  a  gentleman  requires,  Barbara,  and  my 
nephew,  having  lived  so  long  in  London,  is,  of  course, 
accustomed  to  everything  of  the  best.  I  do  not  know 
what  to  suggest  for  his  evening  meal." 

"I  will  go  to  the  market,"  said  the  girl  cheerfully, 
"and  I  will  see  what  is  especially  good  on  Saturday. 
We  cannot  have  fish,  since  Monsieur  does  not  come  until 
Monday,  but  we  can  have  an  excellent  salad,  for  Sammle 
has  some  young  lettuces  in  the  frame,  which  will  be 
ready  by  then." 

Miss  Anne  looked  relieved. 

"I  think,  Barbara,  in  that  case  I  will  leave  it  to 
you." 

The  girl  smiled.  This  was  the  invariable  end  to  Miss 
Anne's  attempts  at  ordering  a  repast :  the  truth  being 
that  Miss  Anne  would  no  more  have  dared  to  offer  a 
suggestion  when  Marie  ruled  over  her  household,  than 
she  would  have  dared  to  venture  out  after  dark.  The 
one  thing  that  the  excellent  Marie  had  resented  was  any- 
thing in  the  nature  of  interference  in  the  catering  depart- 
ment, which  was  especially  her  kingdom. 

"  My  nephew  has  not  been  to  see  me  for  a  long  time," 
continued  the  old  lady  presently,  speaking  in  her  gentle, 
deprecating  voice.  "He  spends  much  of  his  time 
abroad,  and,  indeed,  it  is  not  many  weeks  since  he 
returned  to  England.  You  will  be  careful  about  the 
coffee,  Barbara.  He  used  to  say  that  our  coffee  was 
better  than  he  ever  tasted  elsewhere.  I  should  be  sorry 
if  he  were  disappointed.  And  I  think  we  will  use  the 
best  Worcester  cups  :  the  ones  with  the  blue  border, 
which  are  in  the  corner  cupboard  in  the  parlour.  You 
will  be  very  careful  of  them  ?  " 

"Certainly,  Miss  Anne;  I  will  take  every  care  of 
them." 

"Perhaps  I  had  better  wash  them  myself,  if  you  will 
just  put  them  carefully  aside,  after  they  have  been  used. 


THE   SISTERS  161 

It  would  grieve  me  if  they  were  chipped  or  broken  :  they 
are  so  very  old." 

"You  can  safely  trust  them  to  me;  I  will  see  that  no 
harm  comes  to  them." 

"I  am  sure  you  will  be  careful,"  said  the  old  lady 
kindly,  "and  that  you  will  remember  that  I  value  the 
cups.  There  are  several  other  things  which  I  keep  for 
the  occasions  on  which  I  have  company,  but  these  I  will 
give  out  on  Monday.  My  nephew  will  not  arrive  till 
late  in  the  afternoon." 

"  Who  is  the  nephew,  and  what  will  he  be  like  ? " 
thought  Barbara,  when  the  old  lady  had  departed. 
"Will  he  be  young  or  old ?  Old,  I  should  imagine,  very 
old,  with  grey  hair,  and  not  very  interesting  !  " 


CHAPTER   XVIII 

AN  AFTERNOON   OUT 

"  Of  little  threads  our  life  is  spun, 
And  he  spins  ill  who  misses  one." 

It  was  nearly  four  o'clock  that  afternoon  when  Bar- 
bara reached  the  "White  House,"  where  she  received  a 
hearty  welcome  from  Molly's  domestic  angel. 

"Well,  now,  we're  right  glad  to  see  you,  miss.  Me 
an'  Alius  was  just  saying  we  didn't  thinfe  you'd  be 
coming  again  before  Saturday.  Missus'll  be  very 
pleased.  Master,  he  hasn't  been  grandly  the  last  few 
days,  and  missus,  she's  fair  wore  out  with  him.  She 
don't  say  nothing,  but  Me  an'  Alius,  we  see  her  coming 
dow-n  in  the  morning  as  if  she  hadn't  slept  a  blessed 
wink  all  night.  There'll  be  just  time  for  us  to  make 
one  of  them  tea-cakes  as  you  like.  You  walk  right  into 
the  drawing-room,  miss,  and  Me  an'  Alius,  we'll  hurry 
with  it." 

"Oh,  Barbara,  how  delightful !  "  exclaimed  Molly,  as 
the  girl  entered.  "I  didn't  think  there  was  a  chance  of 
your  coming  to-day.  How  did  you  manage  to  get 
here?" 

"I  walked.  Miss  Anne  told  me  I  might  come,  as  I 
had  nothing  particular  to  do.  How  are  you  ?  "  Barbara 
turned  to  the  sofa,  where  Dick  Arkwright  was  lying. 

"Much  the  same  as  I  was  yesterday,  and  much  the 
same  as  I  shall  be  to-morrow,  thank  you,"  he  answered, 
with  a  whimsical  smile  which  robbed  the  words  of  their 
dreariness. 

"He  is  a  little  better  to-day,"  said  Molly  brightly, 
"but  he  has  had  a  horrid  week.  How  have  you  been 
getting  on,  dear?  " 

"Very  well  indeed." 

162 


AN   AFTERNOON   OUT  163 

"Any  excitements  at  Fiddler's  Green?"  asked  Dick. 

"Thrilling  excitements,"  replied  the  girl,  with  a  smile. 
"A  new  batch  of  chickens,  and  a  new  family  of  cats! 
Would  Patsy  like  a  kitten  by  and  by  ?  " 

"Oh,"  cried  Molly,  "no  more  animals,  I  beseech  you ! 
Patsy's  whole  heart  and  soul  are  taken  up  with  the 
trousered  pig  John  Strong  sent  her.  She  lives  in  the 
pig-sty,  to  the  ruin  of  her  clothes  and  the  despair  of 
Me  an'  Alius.  Barbara,  I  am  sure  it  must  have  been 
the  impression  you  made  on  that  young  man  which 
prompted  the  gift ;  and  next  time  do,  please,  take  charge 
yourself  of  any  token  of  affection  your  admirers  may 
bestow,  and  don't  hand  them  on  to  us  I  That  little  pig 
is  taking  years  off  my  life  I  " 

Barbara  laughed.  "Not  in  the  least.  It  was  entirely 
the  charms  of  your  beautiful  daughter  that  conquered 
Mr.  Strong.     I  had  nothing  to  do  with  it  at  all." 

"How  are  the  old  ladies?"  asked  Dick.  "Is  Miss 
Margaret  still  sowing  daisies,  poor  dear  ?  " 

"Yes,  she  sowed  another  row  this  morning.  But 
really  I  do  not  think  we  should  pity  her;  she  seems  so 
happy  over  it." 

"It  is  rather  pathetic,  all  the  same.  Fancy  spend'ing 
your  life  in  the  culture  of  white  daisies  !  Now  if  it  were 
cabbages,  it  might  Be  less  poetic,  but  a  great  deal  more 
useful." 

"It  does  not  seem  to  me  that  she  spends  her  life  over 
it,  but  rather  that  her  life  is  already  spent,  and  that  this 
is  just  a — what  would  you  call  it? — an  occupation." 

"A  relaxation  for  her  declining  years,"  suggested 
Dick.  "That's  quite  a  nice  idea,  but  I  am  afraid  poor 
Miss  Margaret  hasn't  ever  lived  her  life." 

"But  her  life  may  be  her  past !  " 

"From  all  I  have  heard,  poor  Miss  Margaret  doesn't 
sound  to  me  as  if  she  ever  had  a  past.  I  have  never  met 
the  old  lady,  but  I  don't  think  it  is  quite  kind  of  you  to 
suggest  that  she  has  had  a  past !  " 

"Don't  be  ridiculous,  Dick  !  "  said  Molly.  "Barbara 
doesn't  in  the  least  understand  what  you  are  driving  at. 
You  are  only  teasing  her." 

M  2 


164  A  DREAM   OF   BLUE   ROSES 

"Miss  Anne  is  much  troubled  to-day,"  said  Barbara 
after  a  while,  "because  on  Monday  her  nephew  is 
coming." 

"  Which  nephew  ?  Is  it  Stephen  Grant  ?  "  exclaimed 
Molly.  "Oh,  I  hope  it  is.  I  haven't  seen  h'im  for  such 
a  long  time." 

"  Good  old  Stephen  !  I  shall  be  glad  to  see  his  glum 
old  face  again,"  said  Dick.  "He  is  sure  to  look  us  up 
if  he  comes." 

"You  will  like  Stephen  Grant,  Barbara,"  said  Molly. 
"  He  is  very  quiet,  but  he  really  is  a  dear  when  you 
know  him." 

"I  do  not  think  I  am  very  likely  to  speak  to  him," 
replied  the  girl,  smiling.  "But  Miss  Anne  seems  very 
much  afraid  that  he  will  be  disappointed  in  my  coffee  ! 
It  seems  he  is  very  particular  about  his  food." 

"Stephen  I  Stuff  and  nonsense!  I  don't  believe  he 
would  know  if  he  were  eating  stewed  ape  or  sweetbread. 
He  has  travelled  all  over  the  world,  and  I  have  been 
abroad  with  him  more  than  once  in  the  old  days,  and 
he's  a  first-rate  hand  at  roughing  it !  I  have  never  heard 
him  complain  of  anything  in  my  life." 

"You  make  him  one  of  your  omelettes,  Barbara,  and 
he  will  be  your  devoted  slave  for  life,"  said  Molly.  "It 
is  all  very  well  for  Dick  to  talk,  but  I  never  met  a  man 
yet  who  didn't  care  what  he  eats.  Come  along;  we'll  go 
and  have  a  stroll  in  the  garden,  while  Dick  has  a  rest, 
until  tea-time;  he  has  been  writing  all  the  afternoon. 
How  are  you  getting  on  really,  dear?"  Molly  asked 
again  when  the  two  were  alone. 

"Really  very  well.  In  fact,  I  do  not  think  it  could  be 
better." 

"But  are  you  happy?  Don't  you  hate  the  life,  all  by 
yourself  there  ?  " 

"No,  most  assuredly  I  do  not  hate  it.  You  see,  it  is 
very  much  what  I  have  been  used  to,  and  there  is  always 
the  thought  that  I  am  saving  something  for  Petite  M^re, 
and  I  really  love  the  old  ladies  already ;  they  are  very 
kind,  and  very  well  satisfied  with  all  I  do  for  them.  It 
is  a  charming  little  house;  and  as  for  the  work,  it  is 


AN   AFTERNOON   OUT  165 

really  nothing.  I  could  not  possibly  have  a  more  easy 
life." 

"You  haven't  answered  my  question,"  said  Molly, 
smiling  kindly.  "You  are  a  brave  little  thing,  but — are 
you  happy  ?  " 

"  I  am,  at  least,  quite  content,"  said  Barbara,  "and  very 
soon  I  am  sure  I  shall  be  quite  happy.  Just  sometimes 
it  seems  a  long  way  from — home,  you  know,  but  that 
cannot  be  helped.  It  is  at  any  rate  a  beginning,  and 
although  I  am  afraid  it  must  be  a  long  time  before  I  can 
go  back  and  see  Petite  Mere,  still  I  am  very  thankful  for 
all  the  kindness  I  receive,  and  particularly  for  the  fact 
that  I  have  not  to  teach  tiresome  children  !  I  could 
never  do  it  properly,  and  the  work  that  I  have  to  do 
now  I  know  I  can  do  perfectly  well,  and  that  makes  all 
the  difference." 

"  I  wish  I  could  come  over  and  see  your  old  ladies." 

"  Oh,  it  would  be  delightful  !  Could  you  not  drive 
over  one  day  ?  " 

"It  does  not  seem  possible  now,"  replied  Molly,  with 
a  sigh.  "Poor  old  Dick  has  been  in  dreadful  pain  again 
lately.  Of  course  he  ought  to  go  away,  but  that  is  out 
of  the  question,  and  things  seem  to  be  very  tiresome  all 
round.  If  only  he  were  better  I  should  not  care.  But 
he  must — he  must  get  stronger  soon.  I  will  not  lose 
hope." 

"  How  are  the  boys  ?  " 

"Very  well.  Philip  is  the  greatest  help  and  comfort  to 
me.  How  the  boy  manages  to  keep  so  bright  and  happy 
I  can't  think.  He  absolutely  refuses  to  look  on  the  dark 
side  of  anything,  and  his  gaiety  is  positively  infectious. 
He  can  make  Dick  laugh  even  when  he  is  feeling  really 
desperately  ill." 

At  this  moment  piercing  shrieks  came  from  the  direc- 
tion of  the  yard  behind  the  house,  and  Molly  and  Bar- 
bara ran  hastily  towards  it.  "It's  Patsy,"  gasped  Molly 
in  terror.     "What  can  have  happened  to  her?" 

They  ran  round  the  corner,  to  find  Patsy,  scarlet  and 
struggling,  but  silent,  while  the  air  was  rent  with  appal- 
ling screams  from  a  small  and  very  agonized  pig,  which 


166  A   DREAM   OF   BLUE   ROSES 

wriggled  vainly  to  escape  from  the  grasp  of  Patsy's 
sturdy  arms. 

The  hind  quarters  of  the  little  animal  were  encased  in 
a  bass  fish-basket,  which  only  added  to  its  discomfiture. 

"  Put  it  down,  Patsy !  "  commanded  her  mother 
sternly.     "  Put  it  down  !  " 

Patsy  obeyed  with  manifest  reluctance,  and  the  pig 
freed  itself  and  scuttled  off  on  to  the  lawn  without  a 
moment's  delay. 

The  child  sat  down  suddenly,  without  the  slightest 
regard  for  the  mud  or  the  stones  on  the  ground,  and, 
putting  her  two  chubby,  dirty  fists  into  her  eyes,  began 
to  sob  bitterly.  "You  don't  know  what  you've  done, 
mummy,  you  don't  know  what  you've  done  !  Pll  never 
catch  him,  never  no  more.  He  was  just  getting  used  to 
being  carried ;  at  least  " — Patsy  was  naturally  truthful — 
"he  would  have  got  used  to  it  in  a  little  while,  and  now 
I'll  have  to  start  all  over  again." 

Molly  stooped  and  picked  her  up. 

"My  darling,"  she  said  fondly,  "I  don't  think  the  pig 
will  ever  like  to  be  carried.  It  makes  him  perfectly 
miserable.  Pigs  like  to  live  in  a  sty,  and  not  in  a  fish- 
basket.  Stop  crying,  my  pet,  and  Barbara  and  I  will 
help  you  to  drive  him  into  his  home." 

"I  did  want  to  carry  him  in  my  arms;  he  is  so 
beautiful." 

"  Have  you  found  a  name  for  him  yet  ?  "  asked  Bar- 
bara, trying  to  turn  the  child's  attention  from  her 
disappointment. 

"Phil  has  found  him  a  lovely  name.    It  is  Badajos  !  " 

"  Badajos  ?  "  cried  her  mother.    "  Why  in  the  world  ?  " 

"Phil  told  me  it  was  the  name  of  some  one  who  had 
breeches,"  explained  the  child  gravely.  "Didn't  you 
never  hear  of  him  yourself  ?  " 

"Yes,  I  have  heard  of  him,"  replied  Molly,  struggling 
with  her  mirth — the  name  was  so  tvpical  of  Phil's  fertile 
imagination  that  she  felt  convulsed  with  laughter. 

"Now  come  quickly;  let  us  put  Badajos  safely  away, 
and  come  in  to  tea." 

The  task,  however,  proved  less  easy  than  it  sounded, 
and  for  over  half-an-hour  Barbara  and  Molly  and  Patsy 


AN   AFTERNOON  OUT  1C7 

chased  a  noisy  and  extremely  agile  pig  round  and  round 
the  lawn.  Finally,  however,  Lance  and  Tony  arrived  to 
their  assistance,  and  the  reluctant  Badajos  was  over- 
whelmed by  superior  numbers  and  borne  panting  to  his 
proper  sphere. 

Patsy  was  captured  by  Me  an'  Alius,  who  were  hor- 
rified at  the  plight  in  which  their  usually  spotless  little 
charge  presented  herself,  and  the  others  trooped  into  the 
drawing-room,  breathless,  but  triumphant. 

"What  in  the  world  have  you  been  doing?"  asked 
Dick.  "Judging  from  the  sounds,  I  should  say  that 
there  was  going  to  be  pork  for  dinner !  Me  an'  Alius 
are  passionately  fond  of  pork." 

Barbara  and  Molly  sank  down  exhausted  after  their 
stern  chase,  and  explained  what  had  happened. 

"The  only  thing  I'm  thankful  for,"  said  Molly  at  last, 
"is  that  no  one  was  there  to  see  an  elderly  and  staid 
mother  of  a  family  tearing  round  like  an  escaped  lunatic. 
I  haven't  run  so  fast  for  years  !  " 

"You  used  to  be  able  to  run  all  right,"  said  her 
husband.    "I  could  tell  tales  about  you  if  I  chose." 

"Don't  listen  to  him,  Barbara,  I  beg;  or,  if  you  must, 
don't  believe  a  word  he  says." 

"  Have  you  had  any  good  fortune  lately  ?  "  asked  the 
girl  after  a  while. 

"  With  the  great  beasts,  do  you  mean  ?  "  asked  Dick, 
this  being  the  name  by  which  Phil  designated  those  who 
presided  over  the  destinies  of  his  father's  manuscripts. 
"Well,  one  article  in  the  State,  but  nothing  else." 

"But  I'm  hoping  very  hard  about  one  particular  story. 
I  am  certain  that  is  going  to  be  taken." 

Dick  looked  fondly  at  his  wife's  animated  face.  "My 
dear,  will  you  never  learn  that  my  humble  efforts 
resemble  a  certain  race  of  pigeons  :  wherever  you  send 
them  they  are  certain  to  return  home.  Sooner  or  later 
they  turn  up,  crumpled  and  dishevelled,  with  unfailing 
regularity." 

"Then  we  just  pack  them  off  again,"  returned  Molly, 
undaunted. 

"You  do,"  corrected  her  husband.  "I  should  never 
have  the  courage.    There  is  a  story  here,  Barbara,"  he 


168  A   DREAM   OF   BLUE   ROSES 

continued,  taking  up  a  magazine  which  lay  on  a  table 
close  to  his  hand,  "which,  I  think,  would  interest  you. 
It  is  all  about  the  Seine  Valley,  just  in  the  part 
you  know.  Rather  a  clever  sketch  of  the  people,  I 
think." 

The  girl  took  it  and  glanced  at  the  page  he  indicated. 

"When  is  Phil  coming  in?"  asked  Dick. 

"He  will  be  late  to-night,"  answered  his  wife.  "Poor 
old  chap,  he  has  got  a  lot  of  work  to  do.  I  am  sorry, 
because  he  could  have  taken  Barbara  home  on  any 
other  afternoon.  She  generally  comes  on  Saturday, 
which  is  just  the  very  day  that  the  office  is  open  late, 
as  a  rule." 

"I  think  he  ought  to  have  a  holiday  soon;  I  must  tell 
him  to  asl^  Mr.  Roach  when  he  can  let  him  go.  He  has 
been  working  hard  enough  for  some  time." 

"Yes,  he  does  deserve  it,"  said  his  mother  proudly. 
"But  I  don't  quite  see  where  he  can  go,  unless  I  wrote 
and  asked " 

"I  don't  suppose  he  could  be  away  for  more  than  a 
fortnight." 

"I  must  see  what  can  be  arranged,"  said  Molly  quietly. 
But  in  her  heart  she  was  wondering,  not  only  where  the 
money  for  his  journey  was  to  come  from,  but  how  to 
provide  the  new  suit  which  would  certainly  be  neces- 
sary before  the  lad  could  go  and  pay  a  visit  to  his 
relations. 

Suddenly  Barbara  looked  up.  "The  person  who  wrote 
this  knew  nothing  whatever  about  the  people  of  that 
country,"  she  said  decidedly. 

"What  makes  you  say  that?"  said  Dick.  "I  thought 
it  was  rather  a  pretty  story." 

"Oh  yes,  it  is  a  pretty  story,  but  the  details  are  all 
wrong.  Any  one  who  knew  the  people  would  see  that 
at  once.  They  do  not  wear  the  clothes  that  are  described 
— the  great  goffered  caps  that  are  mentioned  are  no 
longer  seen  there;  the  peasants  are  more  the  peasants 
of  Lisieux  or  Vire;  also  they  are  kind  and  very  good- 
natured  people,  and  they  would  on  no  account  be  harsh 
to  a  poor  idiot  boy  in  the  way  which  is  described  in  the 


AN  AFTERNOON   OUT  169 

story.  On  the  contrary,  they  would  be  especially  kind, 
for  they  consider  that  one  so  afflicted  by  Le  Bon  Dieu 
is  most  to  be  cared  for  and  looked  after.  Also  they  are 
good  housewives,  these  people ;  and,  pouf !  who  ever 
heard  of  a  good  housewife  washing  clothes  on  a  Friday  ! 
That  would  all  be  finished  and  the  linen  out  to  bleach 
by  Tuesday.  I  know  them  well.  I  knew  pauvre  Madame 
Revalle  at  Le  Petit  Andely;  she  had  one  son  who  was 
imbecile — quite  affreux — and  her  life  was  one  long  sacri- 
fice of  love.  She  was  a  widow,  and  had  to  work  hard  to 
support  herself  and  him,  and  was  always  cheerful  and 
never  complained.  She  used  to  do  needlework,  and  I  have 
often  met  her  miles  away  from  home,  taking  back  some 
sewing  or  something  of  the  kind,  and  always  pushing 
her  Jacquot  in  a  sort  of  huge  perambulator.  He  was  the 
joy  of  her  life  !  I  know  the  people  well.  I  could  tell  all 
about  them." 

Dick  laughed  at  the  girl's  scornful  tone.  "Well,  why 
don't  you  write  about  them,"  he  asked  good-naturedly, 
"and  show  this  fellow  his  stupid  mistakes?" 

"  I  do  not  think  I  could  do  that,"  she  answered  lightly, 
"but  it  is  not  because  I  do  not  know  plenty  of  stories 
about  them." 

"Oh,  Barbara,  do  try,"  said  Molly.  "I  am  sure  it 
would  be  interesting." 

"No,  no;  my  task  in  life  is  the  making  of  omelettes, 
and  not  of  books,"  answered  Barbara.  "I  must  be  going 
home  now.  I  am  afraid  I  shall  not  be  able  to  come  on 
Saturday,  owing  to  the  advent  of  Monsieur  le  nepheu, 
but  if  I  can  look  in  very  early  in  the  morning  after 
market  I  will  do  so." 

"I  will  walk  a  little  way  up  the  road  with  you,  if  you 
will  wait  a  minute  while  I  get  my  hat,"  said  Molly. 

"She  isn't  looking  a  bit  well,  is  she?"  said  Dick 
sadly,  as  his  wife  left  the  room. 

"I  think  she  seems  well,"  replied  the  girl,  striving  to 
cheer  him.  "You  would  have  thought  so  if  you  had 
seen  her  in  the  garden  this  afternoon." 

"She  is  always  happy  playing  with  her  children,  and 
it   does  her  good.     Good-bye,    Barbara.     Come  again 


170  A   DREAM   OF   BLUE   ROSES 

soon,  and  tell  Stephen  Grant,  if  it  is  he  who  is  coming^, 
that  I  shall  expect  to  see  him." 

"I  won't  promise  to  do  that,"  she  answered,  smiling. 
"I  do  not  suppose  I  shall  have  an  opportunity  to  speak 
to  him." 

"  Have  you  heard  from  Maddy  ?  "  asked  Molly,  as  the 
two  walked  up  the  road  together. 

"Yes,  I  had  a  letter  this  morning.  I  am  glad  to  say 
that  a  niece  is  coming  to  live  with  her  for  the  summer. 
It  will  be  a  great  help." 

"It  is  a  pity  that  she  cannot  come  and  live  in  England, 
so  as  to  be  nearer  to  you." 

"It  would  be  heavenly,  but  it  is  quite  impossible.  The 
Pavilion  is  her  own,  you  see,  and  she  does  not  have  to 
pay  rent  for  it.  That  was  why  we  went  to  live  there 
after  Pere  Joseph  died.  Also  there  is  Melanie  to  be 
considered ;  she  is  old,  and  I  do  not  think  she  could  ever 
leave  France." 

"Do  vou  remember  anything  about  your  people, 
Barbara?" 

"No,  nothing,"  said  the  girl  quietly. 

"You  never  knew  your  parents  ?  " 

"P^re  Joseph  and  Petite  M^re  are  the  only  parents  I 
have  ever  known,"  she  said,  and  there  was  an  inflection 
in  her  voice  which,  although  perfectly  friendly,  warned 
Molly  she  was  not  to  be  questioned  further. 

She  had  often  wondered  what  the  girl's  history  could 
be,  and  whether  she  had  any  relations  of  her  own.  For, 
fond  as  she  had  been  of  her  old  governess,  there  was  a 
certain  distinction  about  Barbara  which  made  it  evident 
to  the  elder  woman  that  she  did  not  spring  from  the 
same  worthy  but  somewhat  humble  stock  as  her  guar- 
dians. At  the  same  time  she  felt  that  the  girl  had  every 
right  to  be  reticent  on  the  subject  of  her  parentage  if 
she  chose,  and  she  had  no  intention  of  trespassing  on 
her  friendship  to  gain  information  at  the  risk  of  endan- 
gering it.  After  all,  it  was  no  business  of  hers,  and  the 
girl  was  so  charming  that  she  could  well  be  accepted 
for  herself  alone.  And  Molly  greatly  admired  the 
courage  with  which  Barbara  had  determined  to  support 
herself  in  a  sphere  of  life  which  was,  to  say  the  least  of 


AN   AFTERNOON   OUT  171 

it,  unusual  for  a  girl  of  gentle  birth,  in  England  at  any 
rate.  And  yet,  as  Barbara  herself  had  said,  was  there 
not  much  greater  chance  of  happiness  in  doing  work 
which  you  knew  you  could  do  well  than  in  undertaking 
a  task  which  you  detested,  and,  detesting  it,  were  hardly 
likely  to  make  a  success  of  it  ? 

"Isn't  it  curious,"  said  Barbara  presently,  "how  one's 
life  changes  ?  If  any  one  had  told  me  last  year  that  I 
should  be  living  in  lEngland  and  far  away  from  Petite 
M^re  I  should  not  have  believed  them." 

"Yes,"  agreed  Molly,  with  a  little  sigh,  "life  does 
change  in  the  most  unexpected  ways.  The  only  mercy 
is  that  one  does  not  know  what  is  going  to  happen 
beforehand.  As  it  is,"  she  added,  smiling,  "when  things 
look  particularly  black,  it  is  a  comfort  to  know  that  any 
change  will  probably  be  for  the  better.  At  one  time  I 
should  have  felt  desperate  if  I  had  imagined  for  a 
moment  that  I  was  going  to  live  in  a  tiny  house  with 
Dick  ill,  and  all  sorts  of  silly  bothers,  but  when  it  came 
to  the  point  I  was  only  too  thankful  to  have  the  little 
house  to  come  to,  and  have  somewhere  peaceful  and 
quiet  for  Dick  to  live  until  he  gets  strong  again.  It 
would  be  much  worse  for  him  to  be  ill  in  London,  know- 
ing all  that  was  going  on  and  not  being  able  to  take 
anv  part  in  it.  Here  he  is  quite  out  of  the  stream,  and 
although  I  know  at  times  he  longs  to  be  in  it,  still  the 
desire  does  not  haunt  him  so  constantly  as  it  would  if 
it  were  always  in  his  ears.  Men  are  not  like  us,  you 
know,  Barbara;  they  cannot  be  satisfied  with  a  lot  of 
little  things  like  we  can.  They  say  small  things  amuse 
small  minds,  in  which  case  I  fear  my  mind  is  pitifully 
small." 

"So  is  mine,  I  suppose,"  agreed  Barbara,  smiling; 
"but  the  saying  isn't  really  in  the  least  true,  because 
it  is  only  a  question  of  proportion.  Our  affairs  and 
interests  would  be  extremely  small  to — well,  let  us  say 
a  statesman,  or  some  one  of  that  kind,  but  for  us  they 
are  important,  and  it  is  right  that  they  should  be  so." 

Molly  nodded.  "Yes,  it  is  certainly  of  far  greater 
importance  to  me  tKat  Lance's  new  coat  should  last  him 
for  some  months  to  come  than  that  we  should  win  the 


172  A  DREAM   OF  BLUE   ROSES 

next  election.  I  watch  the  progress  of  the  coat  with  far 
more  interest  than  the  political  situation ;  it  concerns  me 
far  more  closely.  After  all,  I  suppose  that  is  a  woman's 
life — doing  small  things  all  the  time,  and  taking  care  to 
do  them  thoroughly.  My  dear,  I  must  turn  back  now. 
I  need  not  tell  you  that  we  are  always  delighted  to  see 
you  whenever  you  care  to  come.  You  always  cheer 
me  up." 

"  I  think  that  it  is  the  other  way  about,"  said  Barbara, 
as  she  bade  her  an  affectionate  farewell. 

The  girl  walked  on  quickly,  for  it  was  already  later 
than  she  had  intended ;  but  she  had  not  gone  more  than 
half-a-mile  when  she  heard  the  sound  of  wheels  behind 
her,  and,  looking  round,  she  saw  that  it  was  John  Strong 
in  his  tax  cart. 

He  pulled  up  when  he  saw  her. 

"Why,"  he  said  heartily,  "this  is  a  stroke  of  luck! 
You'll  have  a  lift,  won't  you  ?  I  didn't  think  you  would 
be  on  the  road  to-day." 

Barbara  accepted  his  offer  with  gratitude,  and  clam- 
bered up  beside  him.  "I've  been  into  Ethel's  on  a 
matter  of  business,  and  stayed  a  bit  longer  than  I  meant 
to,"  he  said;  "but  it  turns  out  all  right,  as  it  happens. 
My  youngest  brother  is  going  to  Canada,  to  try  his  luck 
there.  He's  been  restless  this  long  time,  but  mother 
didn't  seem  to  like  the  thought  of  losing  him;  but  she 
has  consented  now,  and  he's  off  next  week.  He  ought 
to  do  well ;  he's  a  steady  lad,  and  he's  got  a  bit  of 
capital." 

"It  will  be  hard  for  your  mother  to  lose  him,"  said 
Barbara.  She  had  come  to  know  John  Strong  pretty 
well,  and  was  getting  used  to  his  simple  way  of  confiding 
his  family  affairs. 

"I  expect  it's  all  for  the  best.  Tom — that's  my  second 
brother,  who  is  married,  and  lives  at  Water  Farm — Tom 
and  I  paid  him  out  his  share  in  the  old  place." 

"Then  you  and  your  mother  will  be  alone  now?" 

"Well,"  said  the  man  rather  doubtfully,  "it  seems  as 
if  we  might  be  for  a  bit.  It's  a  dear  old  place,  ours.  I 
wish  you  could  come  down  and  see  it  some  day." 

"I  should  like  to  very  much." 


AN  AFTERNOON   OUT  178 

"I  think  you  would  like  it.  I'm  just  a  farmer,  of 
course,  but  I  think  that  simple  folks  can  be  just  as 
happy  as  great  ones.     Don't  you?" 

"Certainly,"  agreed  Barbara;  "1  am  sure  of  it." 

The  man's  face  brightened.  "It  isn't  as  if  we  couldn't 
live  well,  and  have  all  we  need,  and  people  to  do  the 
rough  work  for  us."  He  hesitated.  "I  wish  you'd  come 
and  see  mother ;  I  think  you  would  like  her."  His  cheery 
red  face  grew  even  redder  for  a  moment,  and  he  changed 
the  conversation  without  waiting  for  the  girl's  reply. 

"  How  are  the  chickens  getting  on  ?  " 

They  talked  for  a  while  about  this  homely  subject,  and 
Strong  promised  to  let  the  girl  have  a  setting  of  his  best 
Minorcas;  and  then  Barbara  told  him  of  Patsy's  delight 
in  her  new  pet,  and  of  the  disturbance  its  advent  had 
created  at  the  White  House. 

He  asked  about  the  boys,  and  on  hearing  that  Lance 
and  Tony  were  at  the  Grammar  School  at  St.  Ethel's, 
volunteered  the  information  that  he  and  his  brothers 
had  been  educated  there.  "They  must  come  out  to  my 
place  some  day  and  have  a  go  at  the  rabbits;  they  will 
enjoy  that — all  boys  do,"  he  said  hospitably ;  and  Bar- 
bara, who  knew  how  entranced  the  two  boys  would  be 
at  the  treat,  thanked  him  warmly  for  the  suggestion. 
It  may  be  that  this  gave  the  man  some  small  encourage- 
ment, for  as  he  pulled  up  at  the  little  gate  he  said  shyly — 

"I  suppose  you  wouldn't  let  me  fetch  you  on  Sunday 
afternoon,  and  take  you  over  to  see  mother?" 

Barbara  hesitated,  and  with  ready  tact  he  added 
quickly,  "Or  perhaps  you'd  come  over  one  day  with 
the  little  maiden  and  her  brothers.  Bring  them  over 
to  tea,  couldn't  you?" 

"That  would  be  delightful.  Thank  you  very  much. 
I  will  ask  their  mother  about  it,  and  let  you  know." 

He  raised  his  cap,  and,  wishing  her  good-day,  turned 
his  horse  and  drove  away  down  the  lane. 

"  He  is  exceedingly  kind,"  thought  Barbara,  as  she 
ran  indoors.  "How  Patsy  would  love  to  spend  an  after- 
noon at  the  farm  !  I  must  not  forget  to  ask  Molly 
about  it." 


CHAPTER   XIX 


STEPHEN   GRANT 


"  A  simple  man,  perhaps,  but  good  ez  gold,  and  true  ez  steel." 

Eugene  Field. 

The  little  house  at  Fiddler's  Green  usually  known 
as  the  "Porch  Cottage"  had  been  in  a  state  of  bustle. 
Miss  Anne  had  been  trotting  up  and  downstairs  all 
the  morning,  producing  her  most  treasured  possessions 
from  their  hiding-places  to  do  honour  to  the  occasion, 
for  she  did  not  often  have  a  guest.  The  finest  linen 
sheets  which  had  been,  as  she  carefully  explained  to 
Barbara,  a  part  of  her  mother's  marriage  chest,  were 
taken  from  the  lavender-scented  shelf,  where  they  had 
lain  undisturbed  for  months;  the  best  silver  spoons  had 
been  extracted  from  the  concealed  cupboard  at  the  head 
of  the  old  lady's  bed  and  dragged  from  their  green  baize 
nest;  the  cherished  Worcester  cups,  carefully  washed 
and  dried  with  a  soft  cloth;  even  Miss  Margaret  had 
been  pressed  into  the  service,  and  had  spent  a  good 
two  hours  arranging  as  many  little  vases  of  daffodils 
to  decorate  the  table. 

And  now  it  was  afternoon.  More  than  forty-eight 
hours  of  brilliant  weather  had  brought  the  blossom  in 
the  orchard  out  with  a  rush,  and  the  thrushes  were 
carolling  as  if  with  the  mere  joy  of  living  amid  so 
much  beauty. 

A  portly  Brahma  hen  was  strutting  under  the  apple- 
trees,  where  the  sunlight  filtered  through  the  branches 
and  spread  a  carpet  of  chequered  light  and  shade, 
followed  by  a  brood  of  diminutive  downy  chicks.  On 
the  threshold  of  the  back  door  a  sleek  tabby  cat  sat 
performing  its  ablutions  with  a  dexterous  moistened 
paw,  interrupting  her  task  now  and  then  to  watch  the 
mother  and  her  young  with  a  mildly  contemplative  eye. 

174 


STEPHEN   GRANT  175 

Just  inside  the  kitchen  Barbara  sat  busy  with  needle 
and  thread,  covering  a  pin-cushion  with  dainty  white 
musHn  for  the  still  further  adornment  of  what  Miss 
Anne  insisted  upon  calHng  the  guest  chamber.  She 
sang  to  herself  the  while,  for  even  an  exile  might  well 
be  moved  to  sing  on  such  a  day,  and  it  is  good  to  be 
young  when  spring  is  in  the  air.  It  was  not  possible 
to  avoid  being  infected  in  some  degree  by  the  agita- 
tion of  the  two  old  sisters,  and  the  girl's  mind  kept 
recurring  to  the  advent  of  this  wonderful  nephew,  whose 
arrival  caused  such  a  flutter  in  their  quiet  life.  On 
one  thing  she  was  determined.  This  great  gentleman 
from  London,  whoever  he  might  be,  should  have  no 
cause  to  say  that  his  aunts'  home  was  any  less  com- 
fortable than  it  was  wont  to  be  during  the  reign  of 
Marie,  and  she  had  roused  herself  to  the  highest  pitch 
of  endeavour  to  have  the  little  house  the  pink  of  neat- 
ness and  perfection.  As  a  matter  of  fact,  Miss  Anne 
had  npt  once  mentioned  Marie  the  whole  morning,  so 
entirely  satisfied  was  she  with  all  the  preparations,  and 
so  grateful  to  the  girl  for  her  willing  interest  and 
assistance. 

Having  completed  her  task,  Barbara  ran  out  into 
the  garden  to  pluck  a  bunch  of  white  lilac  from  the 
bush  that  was  just  bursting  into  flower,  scenting  all 
the  air  around  it  with  delicious  perfume.  And  as  she 
did  so  she  heard  the  gate  click,  and  looking  round  she 
saw  Major  Vasey  walking  up  the  path. 

"Oh  yes,  Miss  Anne  was  at  home,"  she  answered  in 
reply  to  his  question,  thinking  that  it  was  hardly  worth 
while  asking,  since  the  old  lady  was  never  known  to 
venture  out  except  on  Sunday  morning,  when  she  went 
to  church. 

"She  is  well,  I  trust?"  he  asked  again,  as  he  walked 
into  the  little  parlour. 

"She  is  very  well,  thank  you.  I  will  tell  her  that 
you  are  here." 

Miss  Anne  was  upstairs  assisting  her  sister  to  fasten 
some  blue  bows  on  the  gown  she  wished  to  wear  for 
her  nephew's  welcome,  and  Barbara  found  her  on  her 


176  A  DREAM   OF   BLUE   ROSES 

knees  just  attaching  the  last  of  the  series,  which  ran 
from  throat  to  hem  of  the  quaint  white  gown.  She 
looked  up  as  Barbara  entered,  her  white  face  rather 
flushed  from  her  exertions  and  the  strain  of  her 
unwonted  position. 

"Let  me  finish  it,  Miss  Anne  !  "  cried  the  girl.  "Why 
did  you  not  tell  me  ?  I  would  have  been  so  pleased 
to  help  Miss  Margaret.  Major  Vasey  has  come  to  see 
you ;  he  is  in  the  parlour." 

"You  go  down,  sister,  and  Barbara  will  finish  it," 
said  Miss  Margaret.  "Do  you  not  think  it  looks  very 
nice  ?  "  the  little  lady  added,  with  childish  vanity,  and 
as  she  spoke  she  twisted  herself  this  way  and  that  in 
front  of  the  mirror  to  obtain  a  better  view  of  her 
finery. 

"I  think  it  is  charming;  if  you  will  but  stand  still  for 
one  minute  it  will  be  finished.  So;  that  is  done.  Ah  ! 
wait  one  moment  longer,  there  is  a  stitch  to  be  put 
in  here  at  the  back." 

"It  is  so  long  since  we  had  a  guest.  We  see  so  few- 
people  now-a-days,  but  it  was  not  always  so.  There 
was  a  time  when  we  received  a  great  many  friends,  both 
gentlemen  and  ladies,  but  of  course  now  that  Mamma 
is  no  longer  here,  it  would  not  be  very  suitable  for  us 
to  entertain  gentlemen,  although  of  course  Anne  is 
really  of  an  age  to  be  able  to  chaperone  me.  And 
one  does  not  require,  after  all,  to  be  chaperoned  in  the 
society  of  one's  nephew;  and  Stephen  was  always  such 
a  charming  boy.  He  is  a  great  favourite  of  mine." 
The  little  lady  heaved  a  sigh.  "It  seems  strange  to 
think  I  should  have  a  grown-up  nephew,  doesn't  it?" 
she  added,   w-ith  a  little  prink  sideways  in   the  glass. 

So  it  was  Stephen  who  was  coming  ! 

"There,  that  is  finished  now.  Is  there  anything  more 
I  can  do?"  asked  Barbara. 

"We  used  to  have  such  very  pleasant  parties,"  con- 
tinued Miss  Margaret,  without  paying  any  attention  to 
the  question.  "Such  very  pleasant  parties;  with  music, 
too.  My  poor  sister  Charlotte — she  was  Stephen's 
mother,  you  know,  played  very  nicely  on  the  violin,  and 


STEPHEN  GRANT  177 

Anne  on  the  piano,  and  I  used  to  sing.  My  voice  was 
very  much  admired,  although  perhaps  you  might  not 
think  so,  for  you  have  never  heard  me  at  my  best.  I 
used  to  sing  in  the  Glee  Society  at  St.  Ethel's.  I  sing 
soprano — but  I  have  very  little  opportunity  for  it  now, 
and  my  voice  is  not  quite  what  it  used  to  be.  Oh,  I 
should  like  you  to  help  me  to  select  a  ribbon  for  my 
hair,  if  you  will  be  so  kind ;  I  have  different  widths,  but 
I  do  not  know  which  will  be  the  most  becoming.  They 
are  in  the  drawer  of  the  dressing-table,  please." 

Then,  as  Barbara  turned  to  get  them,  she  went  on 
talking  half  to  herself,  "  He  said  he  liked  my  singing, 
and  the  day  he  was  coming  I  had  a  song  all  ready  on 
the  piano — I  remember  the  name  of  it  quite  well.  Per- 
haps you  know  it — it  is  called  '  Ever  of  thee  I'm  fondly 
dreaming,'  and  it  goes  like  this — 

" '  Ever  of  thee  I'm  fondly  dreaming, 
Thy  gentle  voice  my  spirit  can  cheer, 
Thou  art  the  star  that  mildly  beaming 
Shines  o'er  my  path,  when  all  is  dark  and  drear.'" 

The  little  old  lady  sang  it  in  a  high,  shaky  voice,  but 
Barbara,  who  could  not  refrain  from  smiling  when  she 
commenced,  had  felt  more  like  shedding  tears  before  the 
end  of  the  verse.  There  was  something  extraordinarily 
pathetic  in  the  sight  of  the  poor  little  old  thing  standing 
in  front  of  the  high  Chippendale  mirror,  in  her  curious 
and  extravagantly  trimmed  gown,  singing  the  foolish 
old  song  with  quavering  tenderness. 

Miss  Margaret's  face  fell,  and  her  voice  dropped  very 
low  as  she  murmured  dreamily,  "  He  never  came,  you 
know.  He  was  killed,"  the  last  word  breathed  in  a 
faint  whisper. 

She  stood  silent  for  a  moment,  and  then,  her  eyes 
falling  on  the  box  of  ribbons  in  Barbara's  hand,  her 
mood  changed  in  a  second. 

"Oh!"  she  cried  gleefully,  "they  are  pretty,  aren't 
they  ?     Which  do  you  think  will  be  the  best  ?  " 

About  half-an-hour  later  Barbara  came  downstairs 
to  find  Major  Vasey  on  the  point  of  departure.    He  and 


178  A  DREAM  OF  BLUE   ROSES 

Miss  Anne  were  exchanging  a  few  last  words  in  the 
hall.  The  girl  walked  forward  to  open  the  front  door, 
and  stood  holding  it  to  allow  the  visitor  to  pass  out. 

She  did  not  catch  their  conversation,  for  they  were 
speaking  in  low  tones,  and  she  was  not  listening ;  but 
after  a  minute  or  two  they  drew  nearer,  and  she  heard 
the  old  gentleman  say — 

"Well,  I  wish  you  good  day." 

"Good  day,  James,"  said  Miss  Anne  in  her  usual 
gentle  way.  He  walked  a  step  towards  the  door,  and 
then,  turning  quickly  back  again,  he  took  her  hand 
in  his.    "Better,  Nancy,  better!  " 

Miss  Anne  looked  at  him  with  a  faint  smile,  but 
made  no  answer,  and  he  went  without  a  word. 

"I  will  get  the  tea  now,"  said  Barbara  cheerfully; 
"Miss  Margaret  will  be  down  directly." 

"Has  she  finished  all  she  has  to  do,  or  shall  I  go 
up?" 

"I  do  not  think  there  is  any  occasion,  for  she  said 
she  was  just  coming  down." 

"I  shall  be  glad  of  my  tea,"  said  Miss  Anne,  "I 
think  I  am  a  little  tired,"  and  she  stepped  into  the 
parlour. 

It  appeared  that  this  was  to  be  a  day  of  visitors,  for 
no  sooner  had  the  sisters  seated  themselves  to  partake 
of  the  refreshing  cup  than  Mr.  Poole  arrived. 

He  greeted  Barbara  very  kindly,  and  made  inquiries 
about  her  welfare;  and  then,  stopping  with  a  little 
jesting  air,  he  placed  his  glasses  on  his  nose  and 
examined  the  doorstep  with  careful  scrutiny. 

"I  congratulate  you,"  he  said  with  a  twinkle  in  his 
eye.    "It  does  you  great  credit." 

Barbara  smiled;  the  kind  vicar  was  always  very 
friendly  to  her. 

"  Is  it,"  she  asked,  with  a  spice  of  mischief  in  her 
voice,  "as  good  as  Miss  Tichy's?" 

"I  should  say,  quite,"  he  returned  with  mock  gravity. 
"I  am  certain  she  could  find  no  possible  fault  with 
it." 

After  tea  Miss  Anne  and  Mr.  Poole  took  a  stroll  in 


STEPHEN  GRANT  179 

the  garden,  and  came  upon  Barbara:  watering  some 
young  plants  which  required  especial  care.  They  stayed 
and  chatted  with  her  for  a  while,  and  then  passed  on ; 
and  Barbara  overheard,  for  the  second  time  that  day, 
a  few  words. 

"How  is  Jim?"     It  was  the  vicar  v/ho  spoke. 

"Really  better,  I  think.  He  was  here  this  after- 
noon." 

"  Poor  Nancy,  poor  Nancy  !  " 

And  then  they  walked  out  of  hearing.  And  the  girl 
could  not  help  wondering,  for  the  two  fragments 
seemed  to  fit  into  one  another.  Did  Major  Vasey,  then, 
suffer  from  some  illness  ?  He  certainly  did  not  look 
delicate,  only  extraordinarily  sad. 

Presently  Miss  Margaret  joined  her.  "Do  you  think 
everything  will  be  ready  for  our  nephew  ?  "  she  asked 
nervously.  "Anne  seems  so  very  anxious  about  it. 
And  do  you  think  it  will  spoil  the  look  of  my  gown  if 
I  wear  this  little  shawl  over  it?  It  is  getting  a  little 
chilly." 

Barbara  reassured  her  on  both  these  points,  and 
added  the  information  that  she  was  just  going  indoors 
to  attend  to  several  small  matters  which  required 
attention. 

"Oh,  may  I  come  with  you?"  asked  Miss  Margaret, 
clasping  her  hands  with  a  little  pleading  gesture. 

"By  all  means,  if  you  wish.  Miss  Margaret." 

"Oh,  thank  you,  you  are  so  very  kind.  Marie  did 
not  like  my  coming  into  the  kitchen.  There  will  not 
be  anything  to  spoil  my  gown  there,  will  there  ?  "  she 
added  in  evident  anxiety. 

Barbara  smiled.  "No,  you  need  not  be  at  all  afraid. 
I  am  going  to  prepare  the  lettuces  that  they  may  be 
ready  for  the  salad." 

"Mr.  Poole  begins  to  look  very  old,"  was  the  little 
lady's  next  remark,  as  she  watched  the  girl  separating 
the  tender  green  leaves  with  dexterous  fingers.  "And 
yet,  you  know,  it  is  not  so  very  long  ago  since  he  was 
such  a  handsome  young  man.  He  had  such  an  upright 
carriage,  and  now  he  is  quite  bent.     It  is  curious  how 

N  2 


180  A   DREAM   OF   BLUE   ROSES 

some  people  age  before  their  time."  This  was  certainly 
rather  hard  on  poor  Mr.  Poole,  who  had  the  advantage 
of  many  men  in  point  of  looks. 

"He  used  to  wear  an  evening  coat  with  a  velvet 
collar;  he  often  came  here  to  sing  when  he  was  young. 
I  used  to  think  that  he  admired  my  sister.  Anne  was 
very  pretty.  Do  you  know  that  all  the  young  men 
used  to  sing  that  sailor  song  on  purpose  for  her?  I 
expect  you  have  heard  it.     It  is  very  stirring — 

" '  Of  all  the  wives  as  e'er  you  know, 
There's  none  like  Nancy  Lee  I  trow.' 

We  used  to  call  her  Nancy  long  ago.  Mamma  never 
quite  approved  of  the  song— she  thought  it  so  very 
marked ;  but  they  used  to  sing  it  all  the  same,  and  they 
quite  vied  with  each  other  over  it.  I  used  to  sing  duets 
with  Charlotte.  Poor  Charlotte  ! — she  was  Stephen's 
mother,  you  know.  Our  duets  were  very  much  in 
request.  We  were  very  happy  when  we  were  young, 
although  perhaps  Anne  was  never  so  naturally  gay  as 
Charlotte  and  I.  We  lived  in  this  house  until  Mamma 
thought  it  best  for  us  to  go  and  live  abroad.  We  were 
all  very  sorry  to  leave  it;  then,  when  Mamma  died, 
we  came  back  here." 

The  little  old  lady  rippled  on  in  her  harmless  gossip 
of  the  past,  while  Barbara  moved  about,  her  thoughts 
more  on  what  she  was  doing,  and  what  yet  remained 
to  be  done  than  on  the  ceaseless  flood  of  chatter. 

And  meanwhile  the  man  for  whom  all  these  prepara- 
tions were  being  made,  sat  in  a  first-class  carriage  in 
the  express  which  was  bearing  him  from  London  to 
St.  Ethel's.  His  hands  and  arms  were  folded  across 
his  chest,  and  he  leaned  back  in  his  corner  looking  very 
comfortable  and  more  than  a  little  thoughtful. 

He  was  a  man  of  rather  over  medium  height,  with 
strong,  somewhat  irregular  features,  and  dark  hair 
turning  slightly  grey  at  his  temples.  He  was  clean 
shaven,  and  his  mouth,  which  was  well  shaped,  had  a 
rather    cynical    twist    at    the    corners,    as    though    its 


STEPHEN   GRANT  181 

possessor  was  apt  to  look  upon  life  with  somewhat 
scornful  toleration,  but  without  unkindness. 

The  visit  which  Stephen  Grant  was  about  to  pay  to 
his  old  aunts  was  not  entirely  one  of  duty.  He  was 
sincerely  attached  to  the  two  old  ladies  in  the  quiet 
undemonstrative  fashion  which  was  habitual  to  him. 
They  represented  to  him  all  the  affection  and  happiness 
that  he  had  known  in  a  childhood  that  had  not  been 
as  full  of  joy  or  as  free  from  sorrow  as  youth  has  every 
right  to  expect. 

His  mother,  the  Charlotte  of  Miss  Margaret's  recol- 
lection, had  married  hastily  and  without  the  consent  of 
her  parents.  This  does  not  mean  that  the  consent  was 
arbitrarily  withheld,  but  that  it  was  never  asked,  and 
the  subsequent  history  of  the  lady  had  borne  out  the 
truth  of  the  adage  that  those  who  marry  in  haste  not 
infrequently  repent  at  leisure.  Not  that  the  man  of 
her  choice  was  entirely  unworthy,  or  guilty  of  any 
crime  which  estranged  the  sympathy  or  friendship  of 
his  fellows — not  at  all ;  but  he  possessed  unfortunately 
a  violent  temper  which,  it  must  be  confessed,  he  was 
at  small  pains  to  control;  and  Charlotte,  who  was 
blessed  with  none  of  Miss  Anne's  gentleness  and  more 
than  a  little  of  Miss  Margaret's  foolishness,  was  cer- 
tainly not  the  woman  to  make  the  best  of  the 
undoubtedly  excellent  points  in  his  character  as  a 
young  man. 

It  was  not  long  before  the  constant  quarrelling  of 
this  badly  suited  couple  ended  in  open  rupture,  and 
they  agreed  to  part.  This  happened  when  Stephen,  the 
only  child  of  the  marriage,  was  about  six  years  old, 
and  his  earliest  recollections  of  home  life  consisted  of 
part  of  the  year  spent  with  a  doting  and  very  injudicious 
mother,  who  alternately  spoilt  and  neglected  him,  and 
the  other  part  with  a  father  whose  moods  varied  between 
excessive  severity,  and  rough,  good-natured  horse-play, 
which  the  child  dreaded  more  than  punishment.  Grant 
had  been  sincerely  devoted  to  his  wife,  and  had  treated 
her  not  amiss  according  to  his  lights,  and  a  woman 
of  finer  and  more  evenly  balanced  mind  might  have 


182  A   DREAM   OF   BLUE   ROSES 

helped  him  to  overcome  his  weakness  and  make  some- 
thing of  his  life.  He  was  not  without  ambition  or 
abiUties,  and  the  downfall  of  all  his  hopes  left  him  a 
soured  and  embittered  man.  He  lived  chiefly  at  his 
club,  and  migrated  to  seaside  lodgings  when  his  little 
son  joined  him.  These  visits  irritated  and  bored  him, 
and  he  only  insisted  on  them  because  he  knew  his  wife 
would  have  been  delighted  if  he  had  never  seen  the 
child. 

Charlotte,  whose  good  looks  made  her  popular 
amongst  her  friends,  spent  a  few  years  flitting  from 
one  amusement  to  another  until  her  health,  which  was 
never  of  the  best,  failed  altogether.  She  lingered  for 
awhile  and  then  died.  It  was  after  her  death  that  Mrs. 
Leigh  came  forward  and  suggested  to  the  willing  father 
that  she  should  take  charge  of  her  grandson,  who  was 
now  of  an  age  to  go  to  school,  and  so  it  came  about 
that  Stephen's  happiest  recollections  were  of  holidays 
spent  with  the  old  ladies.  He  saw  his  father  from  time 
to  time,  and  indeed  went  to  live  with  him  for  some 
months  during  his  last  illness ;  but  there  had  never  been 
any  love  between  them,  and  when  his  father  died,  the 
son  was  quite  unable  to  feel  any  real  sorrow. 

Stephen  found  himself  at  the  age  of  twenty-two 
possessed  of  a  fine  income,  for  his  father  had  been  a 
rich  man,  with  few  responsibilities  and  perfect  freedom 
of  action.  There  was  no  reason  for  him  to  follow  any 
profession  unless  he  cared  to  do  so.  His  original 
intention  had  been  to  enter  the  army,  but  he  had  been 
tied  to  his  father  during  just  the  time  when  he  should 
have  been  working  and  passing  examinations,  and  his 
chance  was  over.  So  he  drifted  for  a  while,  and  then 
joined  a  party  of  friends  who  were  going  on  an 
expedition  of  'exploration  in  Northern  Canada.  He 
returned  after  two  years,  but  a  spirit  of  restlessness 
had  him  in  its  grip,  and  since  then  he  had  travelled, 
with  short  intervals  spent  in  London,  all  over  the  world. 

His  life  had  not  been  fruitless  or  wasted.  Although 
he  had  never  had  any  obligation  to  do  other  than  follow 
his  inclinations,  no  one  would  have  thought  of  him  as 


STEPHEN   GRANT  183 

an  idle  man.  He  had  gained  a  good  deal  of  valuable 
and  out-of-the-way  knowledge  in  his  wanderings,  and 
had  done  one  or  two  really  fine  things.  His  name 
was  well  known  to  the  Geographical  Society  and  to 
sundry  other  societies  who  are  interested  in  matters 
which  the  world  at  large  designates  as  dull,  but  he  was 
at  no  time  a  great  talker,  and  few  persons  beyond 
those  immediately  concerned  knew  anything  of  his 
exploits. 

He  was  perhaps  not  naturally  reserved,  but  he  had 
been  singularly  sensitive  as  a  child,  and  there  is  no 
doubt  that  the  unfortunate  relations  between  his  parents 
and  their  constant  disagreements  had  left  their  mark 
on  his  character. 

He  had  early  learned  the  necessity  of  depending  on 
himself,  and  making  no  claim  on  the  sympathy  of 
others  for  anything  beyond  the  easy  social  intercourse 
of  every  day.  Frankly,  while  not  exactly  distrustful, 
he  had  no  great  opinion  of  his  fellow  creatures,  and 
more  especially  of  women,  but  he  took  the  world  as 
he  found  it,  and  kept  his  private  opinions  carefully 
to  himself. 

It  followed  that  he  was  a  man  of  few  real  friends, 
although  he  had  a  large  circle  of  acquaintances  in  every 
part  of  the  globe,  and  among  those  few  he  numbered 
Dick  Arkwright,  although,  of  late,  circumstances  had 
prevented  him  from  seeing  him  often. 

Since  his  return  from  his  last  journey  he  had  been 
detained  in  town  by  business  that  was  now  satis- 
factorily completed,  and  so  far  he  had  made  no  definite 
plan  for  the  next  few  months;  but  he  had  some  idea 
of  prevailing  upon  Dick  to  come  away  with  him  if  he 
was  well  enough.  He  would  go  to  the  "White  House" 
after  visiting  his  aunts  and  see  for  himself  the  state 
of  Dick's  health,  for  his  letters  had  been  few  and  far 
between,  and  had  not  told  him  what  he  wished  to 
know. 

On  arriving  at  St.  Ethel's,  he  chartered  d  convey- 
ance and  drove  through  the  Market  Place  in  the 
gathering   twilight.     He   noted   with   some   amusement 


184  A  DREAM  OF  BLUE  ROSES 

well-known  landmarks  of  his  boyhood,  absolutely 
unchanged,  absolutely  familiar.  There  was  perhaps 
a  little  more  grass  growing  between  the  cobbles,  he 
thought  to  himself,  but  that  was  all.  Time's  hand  was 
tender  with  St.  Ethel's,  and  mellowed  without  marring 
the  ancient  monuments  of  bygone  days. 

He  reached  Fiddler's  Green  in  darkness,  but  as  he 
opened  the  wicket  gate  and  walked  up  the  flagged 
pathway,  the  door  was  flung  open  in  welcome ;  a  lamp 
was  burning  brightly  within,  and  Stephen  Grant, 
entering,  found  himself  face  to  face  with — the 
adventuress  I 


CHAPTER    XX 


ONLY   A    SONG 


"A  slumberous  sound — a  sound  that  brings 
The  feehng  of  a  dream." 

Longfellow. 

Dick  Arkwright  may  have  been  perfectly  right  when 
he  stated  so  emphatically  that  Stephen  Grant  was  not 
unduly  particular  in  the  matter  of  food,  but  there  does 
not  exist  a  man  who  does  not  find  himself  soothed  and 
comforted,  even  against  his  will,  by  a  meal  which  is 
perfectly  prepared  and  perfectly  served  :  unless  it  be, 
perhaps,  one  of  those  unfortunates  who  consider  that 
everything  that  appeals  to  the  palate  constitutes  a  serious 
danger,  and  imagine  that  life  should  be  sustained  on 
a  diet  of  cereals  and  nuts !  Stephen  Grant  was  no 
gourmet,  but,  manlike,  he  appreciated  comfort  when  he 
could  have  it,  and  he  merely  spoke  the  truth  when  he 
brought  a  flush  of  pride  to  Miss  Anne's  gentle  face,  by 
saying  that  never  in  all  his  wanderings  had  he  tasted  a 
better  salad,  or  such  superlative  coffee. 

The  trio  had  adjourned  to  the  parlour  and  taken  their 
seats,  Miss  Anne  in  the  narrow  straight-backed  chair, 
covered  in  Berlin  wool-work,  on  one  side  of  the  hearth, 
while  her  nephew  occupied  the  great  winged  arm-chair 
opposite  to  her.  Miss  Margaret  had  laid  a  square  of 
faded  silk  upon  the  corner  of  the  polished  walnut  table 
in  the  centre  of  the  room,  and  was  playing  Patience. 
She  demurred  at  first,  doubtful  whether  politeness  per- 
mitted her  to  indulge  in  her  favourite  game  in  the 
presence  of  a  guest,  but  Stephen,  knowing  her  invariable 
habit,  had  over-ruled  her  objections,  as  always  on 
previous  occasions.  The  same  little  comedy  was  always 
played  for  his  benefit. 

i8s 


186  A  DREAM   OF   BLUE   ROSES 

Miss  Margaret  would  walk  in  after  supper,  and  take 
her  box  of  cards  from  the  what-not  in  the  corner  as  if 
half  unconscious  of  her  action.  Then  she  would  stop,  as 
if  recollecting  herself,  and,  laying  them  down  with  a 
sigh,  she  would  seat  herself  stiffly  on  a  small  chair, 
and  fold  her  hands  together  primly.  This  was  Stephen's 
cue. 

"Are  you  not  going  to  play  Miss  Milligan,  Aunt 
Daisy?"  he  would  ask. 

"I  think  it  would  be  hardly  courteous  when  we  have 
a  guest,"  the  little  lady  would  say,  cocking  her  head, 
with  its  erection  of  curls,  slightly  on  one  side,  and,  if 
the  truth  must  be  told,  simpering  a  little. 

"Oh,  do  have  your  game,  I  should  not  like  to  think 
you  gave  it  up  for  me." 

A  little  more  coyness  on  the  part  of  Miss  Margaret, 
a  little  more  coaxing  on  the  part  of  her  nephew,  wiih 
Aunt  Anne  as  chorus  to  his  remarks,  and  the  little  lady 
yielded,  with  undisguised  pleasure. 

"So  Marie  has  left  you  ?  "  said  Stephen,  after  a  while. 

"Yes,"  returned  Miss  Anne,  "she  was  obliged  to  go 
home  to  keep  house  for  her  brother,  after  his  wife  died. 
She  left  him  with  a  young  family;  it  was  very  sad." 

"  I  see  you  have  managed  to  replace  her.  Where  did 
you  hear  of  your  present — Abigail  ?  " 

"Mr.  Poole  sent  her  to  me." 

"Oh,  did  he?"  murmured  Stephen  in  surprise. 

"Yes,  and  she  is  a  friend  of  your  friends  the  Ark- 
wrights." 

"Oh  !  "  repeated  her  nephew. 

"Yes,  I  really  was  very  doubtful  about  engaging  her. 
She  is,  of  course,  not  of  the  usual  class,  but  Mr.  Poole 
sent  her,  and  she  seemed  so  anxious  to  come,  and  really, 
Stephen,  I  was  so  dreadfully  harassed.  We  had  a  very 
objectionable  person  after  Marie  left,  and  I  had  not  been 
used  to  English  servants  for  so  many  years  that  I  did 
not  know  what  to  do.  They  seem  so  hard  to  manage. 
Do  you  think  I  did  wrong?"  Miss  Anne  looked  at  her 
nephew  with  some  anxiety,  and  spoke  timidly. 

"I  do  not  see  why.     If  Mr.  Poole  sent  her,  I  expect 


ONLY  A   SONG  187 

you  are  all  right.     Did  she  give  any  reason  for  wanting 
to  take  up  this  kind  of  work  ?  " 

"She  only  said  that  she  was  obliged  to  earn  her  living, 
and  was  not  qualified  for  teaching,  and  would  prefer 
this  kind  of  occupation." 

"I  don't  blame  her.     Does  she  suit  you  all  right?" 

"I  am  really  quite  attached  to  her  already,"  said  Miss 
Anne,  "she  is  so  capable,  and " 

"So  very  kind,"  added  Miss  Margaret. 

"  I  only  hope  she  will  not  find  the  life  too  dull," 
continued  Miss  Anne;  "girls  do  not  like  living  in  the 
country." 

"I  hope  for  your  sake  that  she  won't,  if  she  is  a 
comfort  to  you." 

"You  are  not  thinking  of  starting  off  again  soon,  I 
trust,"  said  Miss  Anne  presently. 

"I  have  made  no  plans  at  present.  At  the  moment  I 
am  feeling  that  it  is  pleasant  to  be  back  in  England  for 
a  while." 

"You  do  not  think — you  will  stay  altogether?"  sug- 
gested Miss  Anne. 

"  I  could  hardly  say  that." 

"I  mean,  you  are  not  thinking  of  getting  married,  are 
you,  dear  Stephen  ?  I  hope  you  will  not  mind  my 
mentioning  it,  but  I  had  so  much  hoped  you  might 
have " 

"Say  anything  you  like,"  he  returned  kindly.  "But 
I  am  afraid  your  hope  will  not  be  realized.  I  have  no 
thought  of  marrying,  either  now  or  in  the  future." 

Miss  Anne  sighed.  "I  am  sorry.  I  do  think,  dear 
Stephen,  that  the  time  has  come  when  you  will  be  happy 
with  a  home  of  your  own,  and  a  pleasant  wife  to  attend 
to  you." 

Stephen  smiled.  "The  pleasant  wife  to  attend  to  me 
has  not  come  my  way,  Aunt  Anne,  and,  as  I  have  told 
you  before,  the  prospect  of  matrimony  does  not  tempt 
me.     I  am  happier  as  I  am." 

"Perhaps,  some  day,"  she  murmured. 

He  shook  his  head.  "Give  it  up,  Aunt  Anne.  You 
are  doomed  to  disappointment." 


188  .  A  DREAM  OF  BLUE  ROSES 

She  raised  her  head  quickly.  "But,"  she  said  per- 
suasively, "  I  have  always  heard  that  those  who  say  they 
will  never  marry  are  generally  the  ones  who  do  so.  I 
shall  not  give  up  hope." 

"And  the  ones  who  think  they  are  going  to  marry, 
don't,  after  all,"  said  Miss  Margaret,  in  a  small, 
plaintive  voice. 

Miss  Anne's  hand  trembled,  and  she  dropped  her 
crochet-hook,  but  by  the  time  Stephen  had  retrieved  it 
for  her,  her  agitation  had  subsided. 

"Have  you  made  the  acquaintance  of  Mrs.  Ark- 
wright  ?  "  he  asked,  a  little  later. 

"No,  I  am  sorry  to  say  I  have  not  had  the  opportunity. 
You  see,  Stephen,  I  never  go  out.  I  have  not  ventured 
into  a  carriage  for  years,  and  I  could  not  walk  the 
distance." 

"No,  I  am  sure  you  could  not  do  that.  I  should  like 
you  to  know  her.  I'll  try  and  bring  her  over  to  see 
you  one  day,  if  I  can.  But  her  husband  is  more  or  less 
of  an  invalid,  and  I  fancy  she  does  not  leave  him  more 
than  she  can  help." 

"I  shall  be  pleased  to  receive  her  at  any  time,"  said 
the  old  lady  in  her  best  manner,  which  was  at  all  times 
a  mixture  of  deprecatory  nervousness  and  simple 
dignity. 

Inwardly  Stephen  was  mentally  registering  a  note  that 
he  would  make  some  inquiries  from  Dick  as  to  this  lady, 
who  had  assumed  so  much  importance  in  the  eyes  of 
the  unsophisticated  residents  of  the  "Porch  Cottage." 

They  would  be  very  easily  deceived  by  the  most 
flagrant  pretender,  and  yet  surely  Mr.  Poole  would 
hardly  have  sent  the  girl  along,  if  he  had  not  been  sure 
of  her  character. 

Stephen  himself  had  not  seen  her  since  the  first  flash 
of  recognition  at  the  door.  He  had  supped  alone  with 
his  aunts,  and  as  everything  had  been  ready  upon  the 
table,  no  waiting  had  been  necessary.  On  his  previous 
visits  it  had  been  the  recognized  thing  that  he  should 
be  allowed  to  smoke  his  pipe  in  the  kitchen  after  the 
ladies  had  retired,  a  privilege  which  had  been  accorded 


ONLY  A   SONG  189 

to  him  originally  in  his  Cambridge  days,  and  which  had 
always  been  accompanied  by  the  most  precise  instruc- 
tions as  to  the  turning  out  of  the  lamps  when  he  was 
ready  to  go  to  bed.  JMiss  Anne  had  from  the  first 
viewed  the  proceeding  with  a  good  deal  of  trepidation, 
but  she  had  been  aware  that  certain  liberties  were  due 
to  him  when  he  reached  manhood,  and  she  had  herself 
suggested  the  arrangement.  It  showed  considerable 
self-sacrifice  on  her  part,  for  it  meant  that  she  must  lie 
awake  till  she  heard  his  footfall,  and  then  creep  down- 
stairs in  her  dressing-gown  to  assure  herself  that  the 
house  would  not  be  burnt  down  during  the  hours  of 
darkness.     But  this  her  nephew  did  not  know. 

On  this  particular  evening,  when  the  old  ladies  had 
betaken  themselves  upstairs,  he  walked  into  the  kitchen, 
and  his  first  thought  was  how  extremely  comfortable  and 
cosy  it  looked.  It  was  an  old-fashioned  "house  place," 
with  a  wide,  open  chimney  and  a  tiled  floor.  The  old 
fire-place  had  been  replaced  by  a  small  closed  stove, 
such  as  are  used  in  France,  and  on  one  side  of  it,  rather 
far  back,  stood  a  heavy  oak  settle.  The  fire  was  low, 
but  the  air  was  pleasantly  warm ;  he  seated  himself,  and 
taking  his  pipe  from  his  pocket,  filled  and  lit  it,  and 
leaning  back  glanced  round  him.  There  were  several 
changes  since  the  reign  of  Marie,  he  noticed.  First  of 
all,  a  large  bowl  of  daffodils  on  the  centre  table  lent  an 
air  of  refinement,  which  he  felt  to  be  unusual.  There 
was  a  bird  in  a  carefully  shrouded  cage  hanging  before 
the  window,  and  on  a  small  table  below  it  was  a  work- 
basket  and  some  books.  Except  for  the  copper  and 
brass  utensils,  which  hung  here  and  there  upon  the 
walls,  nothing  in  the  room  suggested  that  it  was  reserved 
for  domestic  uses.  All  evidence  of  such  a  thing  had 
been  carefully  removed. 

After  a  while  he  rose,  and  strolling  over  to  the  table 
picked  up  the  books  and  glanced  at  them.  The  first 
was  a  cookery  book ;  this  he  felt  to  be  entirely  suitable, 
but  the  second  occasioned  him  some  surprise.  It  was 
Maeterlinck's  Wisdom  and  Destiny,  in  French — surely 
an  unusual  volume  to  find  in  a  cottage  kitchen.     Below 


190  A  DREAM  OF  BLUE  ROSES 

it  lay  a  volume  of  Henley's  poems,  with  Molly  Ark- 
wright's  name  on  the  fly-leaf,  and  close  beside  it  a 
"Tennyson,"  on  the  first  page  of  which  were  inscribed 
the  words,  "Barbara  Claudia  Vincent,  de  sa  bien  afifec- 
tionnee  Mere." 

So  that  was  her  name,  Barbara  Claudia  Vincent; 
rather  an  unusual  name  for  a  maid-of-all-work — or 
probably  she  described  herself  as  a  lady's  help ;  he 
believed  such  a  profession  existed.  Well,  he  hoped  it 
was  all  right;  certainly  the  aunts  seemed  proud  of  their 
new  treasure. 

From  what  he  had  seen  of  her,  the  girl  looked  like  a 
lady,  but  in  these  days  every  one  could  do  that,  with 
clothes  cheap,  and  free  education  for  all.  Most  prob- 
ably she  was  some  one  whom  Molly  was  befriending  in 
the  kindness  of  her  heart.  If  any  one  could  have  made 
Stephen  Grant  alter  his  opinion  on  the  utter  selfishness 
and  shallowness  of  women  in  general,  it  would  have  been 
his  friend's  wife ;  but  although  he  appreciated  and 
admired  her,  it  was  more  as  the  one  particular  exception 
that  proves  the  rule  than  as  serving  to  alter  the  general 
principle  he  held. 

Finally,  having  finished  his  pipe,  he  extinguished  the 
lamp  and  went  upstairs  to  bed,  and  gave  no  further 
thought  to  anything  except  sleep. 

He  was  awakened  the  next  morning  by  the  sun  falling 
straight  on  his  face  through  the  open  window,  which  he 
had  purposely  left  uncurtained  the  night  before,  and 
his  first  impression  was  that  the  wheels  of  time  had 
suddenly  turned  backwards.  For  he  heard  sounds 
which,  in  that  half  state  midway  between  dreaming  and 
waking,  transported  him  back  to  the  house  his  grand- 
mother had  occupied  in  a  little  French  village  not  many 
miles  from  St.  Malo,  and  for  a  moment  he  was  a  boy 
again. 

He  listened  in  bewilderment.  A  fresh  young  voice 
was  singing  something  he  had  often  heard  in  boy- 
hood's days,  and  he  raised  himself  in  bed  to  hear  more 
clearly. 


ONLY  A  SONG  191 

*  Au  clair  de  la  lune,  mon  ami  Pierrot, 
Prete-moi  ta  plume,  pour  ecrire  un  mot, 
Ma  chandelle  est  mort,  je  n'ai  point  de  feu— 
Ouvre-moi  ta  porte,  pour  I'amour  de  Dieu." 

And  then  he  remembered.  How  absurd  it  was  !  He 
was  a  grown  man  of  five-and-thirty.  and  in  his  aunts' 
house  at  Fiddler's  Green. 

He  lool^ed  at  his  watch :  it  was  close  upon  eight 
o'clock.  He  sprang  up  and  walked  to  the  window,  and 
peeping  cautiously  out,  caught  his  breath  with  a  little 
gasp  of  surprise,  which  was  really  quite  unnecessary, 
for  all  that  met  his  gaze  was  an  orchard  in  bloom  and 
a  gleam  of  white  linen  hanging  on  a  line  at  the  far  end 
of  it,  while  close  to  the  house  a  girl  was  engaged  in  the 
very  natural  task  of  placing  some  small  articles  to  dry 
upon  a  clothes-horse. 

She  was  dressed  in  a  simple  blue  cotton  gown,  and 
her  sleeves  were  rolled  up  to  the  elbow,  leaving  her  white 
arms  bare.  She  wore  no  hat,  and  the  sunlight  flickered 
through  the  cloud  of  blossom,  and  played  like  an  auriol 
on  her  soft  brown  hair. 

And  the  song  continued — 

"Je  n'ouvre  pas  ma  porte  pour  un  patissier 
Qui  apporte  la  lune  dans  son  tablier." 

And  then  it  broke  off,  for  a  homelier  voice  interrupted 
it. 

"Well,  miss,  if  this  ain't  a  morning  sent  just  from 
above,  just  for  to  dry  them  sheets,  I  don't  know  what 
it  is  !  " 

Mrs.  Dodge,  stout,  commonplace  and  verbose,  loomed 
into  his  vision. 

"It  is  most  fortunate,  is  it  not?  because  we  do  not 
want  to  be  late  with  them  this  week,"  replied  the  girl, 
and  the  unseen  listener  noticed  that  her  voice  was  clear 
and  soft. 

He  turned  away  from  the  window  and  contemplated 
dressing,  when  a  horrible  thought  struck  him.  If  he 
rang  would  she  answer  the  bell  ?  Upon  reflection  he 
opened  the  door,  and  looked  out  into  the  passage.     To 


192  A  DREAM   OF   BLUE   ROSES 

his  great  relief,  there  was  a  large  can  of  boiling  water 
outside,  neatly  shrouded  in  a  towel,  while  on  a  chair 
beside  it  reposed  a  tray  with  a  teapot  and  other  adjuncts 
of  the  early  dejeuner. 

The  bath  stood  ready  in  his  room  since  the  night 
before,  and  nothing  now  lacked,  so  without  delay  he 
began  his  toilet. 

Meanwhile  Barbara,  in  the  orchard,  had  not  considered 
that  the  w'indow  of  the  guest  chamber  looked  out  that 
way,  and  was  blissfully  unconscious  of  an  audience. 
She  had  been  up  early,  as  was  her  wont,  and  had  washed 
a  few  little  fal-lals  for  Miss  Margaret,  certain  cherished 
adornments  which  suffered  from  Mrs.  Dodge's  rough 
handling,  and  she  was  now  taking  advantage  of  the 
sunshine  to  dry  them,  previous  to  ironing.  Mrs.  Dodge, 
from  the  other  end  of  the  orchard,  fired  off  a  constant 
round  of  remarks,  but  that  good  lady  never  waited  for 
a  reply,  so  her  garrulity  was  not  disturbing. 

"Hullo,  Tommy!"  cried  Barbara  suddenly.  She 
pronounced  it  with  a  certain  lingering  inflection, 
"Thowee,"  being  still  unable  to  achieve  the  clipped 
accents  of  characteristic  English.  "Good-morning, 
Thomee,  how  are  you  this  morning  ?  " 

Tommy  sucked  a  reflective  and  somewhat  grimy 
thumb,  and  made  no  reply.  He  was  very  short  and 
very  round,  and  only  four  years  old,  but  he  had  the 
advantage  of  many  of  his  elders,  since  he  possessed  a 
great  gift  for  silence.  It  was  not  that  he  could  not  talk, 
although  you  might  easily  have  imagined  him  afflicted 
with  dumbness.  It  was  that  he  did  not  choose  to. 
When  the  fancy  took  him  he  could  string  words  together 
with  a  velocity  that  left  even  his  redoubtable  grand- 
mother, Mrs.  Dodge,  hopelessly  outclassed,  but  these 
occasions  were  very  few  and  far  between.  One  of  the 
reasons  for  his  lack  of  conversation  may  have  been  that 
he  was  generally  occupied  in  sucking  something — a 
green  apple  or  a  lollipop,  or  if  nothing  better  was  avail- 
able, his  own  thumb,  and  judging  from  the  foreign 
substance  which  encircled  this  chubby  member,  it  is 
possible  that  he  derived  considerable  nutriment  from  it. 


ONLY   A   SONG  198 

He  stared  for  awhile,  and  then  removing  his  digit,  said 
shortly,  "Thing!  " 

Barbara  laughed.  "Sing,  must  I,  then,  little  fat 
one  ?  "  and  she  commenced  again — 

*'Je  n'ouvre  pas  ma  porte  pour  un  patissier 
Qui  apporte  la  lune  dans  son  tablier." 

And  as  she  sang,  she  made  a  few  dancing  steps  towards 
the  child  in  time  with  the  tune. 

Tommy's  mouth  widened  into  a  grin  of  delight,  and 
then  feeling  doubtless  that  imitation  was  the  sincerest 
form  of  flattery,  he  proceeded  to  raise  one  foot  after  the 
other  in  a  clumsy  reproduction  of  her  movements. 
Barbara,  rippling  with  merriment  at  the  absurd  sight 
the  stout  little  imp  presented,  quickened  the  tune  and 
her  steps.  Tommy,  not  to  be  outdone,  did  the  same, 
chuckling  with  glee,  but  only  for  a  moment.  His  short 
fat  legs  were  unable  to  keep  pace  with  his  excellent 
intentions,  and  he  fell  sprawling  on  his  face.  This 
proved  too  much  for  his  feelings,  and  he  wept — not 
gentle  weeping,  but  a  perfect  bellow  of  disgust,  which 
brought  his  grandmother  hurrying  up  the  path,  balanc- 
ing, as  she  walked,  a  large  basket  on  her  ample  hip. 
Barbara  had  already  rescued  Tommy  from  his  lowly 
position,  but  she  was  quite  unable  to  comfort  him.  In 
spite  of  her  kind  ministrations  he  continued  to  wail 
loudly.     Mrs.  Dodge  tried  another  method. 

"Stop  it!  "  she  cried,  "or  I'll  skin  you  !  Was  there 
ever  such  a  boy,  making  himself  all  of  a  mess  !  "  With 
that  she  proceeded  to  slap  the  dust  from  his  stomach 
with  so  much  firmness  that  Tommy  ceased  crying,  for 
the  simple  reason  that  he  had  no  breath  to  cry  with. 
Barbara  flew  indoors,  and  returned  in  a  moment  with  a 
slice  of  bread  thickly  spread  with  brown  sugar. 

Tommy  spied  her  coming,  and  immediately  uttered 
another  howl,  thinking  possibly  that  the  dainty  was  a 
reward  for  his  previous  efforts  in  that  direction,  but  he 
soon  discovered  that  it  is  impossible  to  eat  and  sob  at 
the  same  time,  so  being  a  wise  lad  he  chose  the  better 
part. 


194  A  DREAM   OF   BLUE   ROSES 

"He  ain't  hurt,  not  a  bit,  are  you,  sonny?  "  said  Mrs. 
Dodge  cheerfully.  "He  can't  abide  falling,  but  he  don't 
never  hurt  hisself ;  he's  too  fat.  Tommy  is,  to  hurt  his- 
self  when  he  falls.  'Tis  a  marvel  to  me  how  that  boy 
keeps  so  fat,  with  all  the  running  about  he  does.  'Tis 
his  nature,  I  suppose.  I  ain't  never  been  one  of  the 
skinny  ones  myself,  so  I  haven't  got  no  cause  to  talk. 
His  mother  she  took  after  me,  and  was  just  about  as 
slender  in  the  middle  as  a  cow  in  the  waist,  she  was." 
Mrs.  Dodge  broke  into  a  hearty  laugh  at  her  own  wit. 
"Well,  for  my  part,  I'd  rather  be  comfortable  than 
skinny,  seein'  that  grumbling  runs  in  the  skinny  sort. 
You've  noticed  that,  maybe,  miss?" 

"I  can't  say  that  I  have,"  replied  Barbara,  thinking 
of  Petite  Mere  and  her  tiny  thin  body  and  great  spirit. 
"I  am  glad  to  say  I  have  never  had  to  live  with  people 
who  grumbled,  at  least,  not  for  long  !  "  she  corrected 
herself,  for  she  suddenly  remembered  Mrs.  Waghorn. 

"I  hate  them  sort,"  continued  Mrs.  Dodge,  with 
emphasis,  "as  walks  through  the  world  a-mopin'.  They 
do  say  as  how  this  world  is  nothin'  but  a  house  of 
bondage,  but  I  say  'tis  mostly  what  you  makes  it.  Where 
you  goin'.  Tommy  ?  "  she  called  suddenly,  for  her  grand- 
son was  making  off  down  the  path,  having  finished  his 
repast,  as  fast  as  he  could  go. 

He  pulled  up  at  the  question,  faced  about,  but  made 
no  reply. 

"If  you're  goin'  down  to  the  Green,  just  you  come 
back  in  time  for  dinner.  I've  no  time  to  come  fetchin' 
of  you.     See?  " 

Tommy  nodded  and  ran  off. 

"And  just  you  mind  that  mott6r'orn,"  yelled  his 
grandmother  at  the  top  of  her  voice,  as  his  departing 
form  vanished  round  the  corner. 

This  was  Mrs.  Dodge's  invariable  cry  whenever  she 
parted  with  her  grandson,  and  it  is  to  be  doubted  if  the 
child  had  the  very  slightest  comprehension  of  what  she 
meant. 

"Them  nasty  things  come  twisting  on  the  Green  that 
fast,"  she  explained,  "and  the  children  they  won't  listen. 


ONLY  A   SONG  195 

As  I  tell  him  there'd  be  plenty  of  time  to  get  out  of  the 
way,  if  they'd  only  hark  for  the  'orn.  But  lor,  bless 
you,  they  don't  heed  nothing,  when  they're  hoppin' 
about  playing  Beggarly  Scot  in  the  middle  of  the  road, 
as  if  there  was  no  such  thing  as  motters  in  the  land. 
No,  nor  even  a  horse  and  cart !  "  The  end  of  the  worthy 
woman's  speech  was  somewhat  indistinguishable,  owing 
to  the  fact  that  she  was  stopping  to  take  some  clothes- 
pegs  out  of  the  basket,  and  had  stuck  one  or  two  in  her 
mouth  for  safe  keeping. 

Stephen  Grant  was  standing  in  the  garden  as  Barbara 
walked  in  a  few  minutes  later.  He  said  "Good- 
morning  "  as  she  passed. 

"Bonjour,  Monsieur,"  she  replied,  as  she  walked  on. 
She  had  hardly  seen  his  face  on  the  previous  evening, 
but  now  in  the  morning  light  she  recognized  him  at 
once. 

"C'est  drole,"  she  said  to  herself.  "That  is  surely 
'  the  Newspaper  Man  ' !  Strange  that  he  should  be  the 
nephew  of  ]\Iiss  Anne.  He  looks  as  solemn  as  he  did 
when  he  rescued  me  from  the  Petit  Journal!  Oh,  it  was 
very  funny,  but  he  never  smiled  at  all  !  I  was  right, 
after  all,  when  I  told  myself  that  the  nephew  of  the  old 
ladies  could  not  by  any  chance  be  young  !  " 


o  2 


CHAPTER    XXI 


FLORA   MOULTRIE 


"  Coquette  and  coy  at  once  her  air 
Both  studied,  the'  both  seem  neglected ; 
Careless  she  is,  with  artful  care, 
Affecting  to  seem  unaffected." 

William  Congreve. 

One  of  the  first  questions  which  Molly  Arkwright 
asked  Stephen  Grant  when  he  came  to  the  White  House 
later  on  in  the  day  was — 

"  Well,  did  you  see  Barbara  ?  " 

Molly  spoke  with  some  amusement  in  her  voice,  for, 
to  tell  you  the  truth,  she  thought  it  not  unlikely  that 
Stephen  might  hardly  have  thought  the  new  addition  to 
his  aunts'  household  quite  old  enough  for  her  position 
of  responsibility. 

"Yes,  I  saw  her,"  he  answered.  "My  aunt  tells  me 
she  is  a  friend  of  yours." 

"  I  expect  you  were  rather  surprised." 

"I  was,  a  little,  but  my  aunt  seemed  very  contented. 
Curiously  enough,  I  crossed  on  the  same  boat  with  the 
young  lady  when  I  came  home  last  time." 

"No,  did  you?    Then  you  knew  her." 

"  I  can't  say  that  I  knew  her.  I  think  I  did  just  speak 
a  few  words  to  her  on  that  occasion,  but  I  don't  suppose 
for  a  moment  she  remembered  me.     Who  is  she  ?  " 

"She  is,  or  rather  was,  a  ward  of  an  old  governess  of 
mine,  whom  I  was  very  fond  of,  and  when  she  was 
coming  to  England  my  old  friend  asked  me  to  be  kind 
to  her." 

"She  stayed  here,"  added  Dick;  "she  is  a  very  charm- 
ing girl,  and  I  think  it  is  jolly  plucky  of  her  to  stick  to 

196 


FLORA   MOULTRIE  197 

her  job  in  the  way  she  does.  She  seems  to  like  it, 
though." 

"She  tells  me  your  aunts  have  been  very  good  to  her. 
You  see,  she  has  got  no  people,  so  far  as  I  can  gather, 
but  Barbara  isn't  the  sort  of  girl  one  can  ask  a  great 
many  questions  of.  It  seems  that  she  has  lived  with 
my  old  friend  ever  since  she  was  a  baby,  and  now  feels 
bound  to  support  herself.  I  can't  say  that  I  haven't 
felt  rather  curious  as  to  who  she  really  is,  but  she  seems 
to  look  upon  herself  as  a  daughter  of  Madame  Maurice, 
her  guardian." 

"The  children  are  very  fond  of  her;  in  fact,  we  all 
are,"  said  Dick,  "and  she  comes  to  us  whenever  she  gets 
the  chance." 

"I  wish  she  were  nearer,"  added  Molly.  "Four  miles 
is  a  very  long  way  to  walk,  although  Barbara  always 
comes  in  on  Saturdays  for  the  market.  She  is  very 
French  in  some  ways,  particularly  in  her  ideas  of  house- 
keeping. French  people  always  think  the  weekly  market 
a  sort  of  sacred  institution." 

Stephen  Grant  did  not  continue  the  subject,  but  sug- 
ic:ested  after  a  while  that  Dick  should  come  away  with 
him  for  a  change. 

"I've  got  a  car,"  he  said.  "I  did  not  come  up  in  it, 
as  it  had  to  go  back  to  the  works  for  a  slight  alteration, 
but  it  will  be  ready  in  a  day  or  two.  Won't  you  let 
him  come,  Mrs.  Dick?  We  could  have  a  little  tour 
anvwhere  he  likes,  and  I  promise  you  I'll  take  great  care 
of 'him." 

"I  am  sure  you  would,"  returned  Molly  gratefully. 
"I  only  wish  it  were  possible." 

"T  don't  see  why  not;  or,  if  you  can  get  some  one  to 
look  after  the  children,  why  don't  you  come  too  ?  There's 
plenty  of  room,  and  you  would  be  quite  comfortable,  I 
promise  vou.  What  do  you  say  to  Devonshire  or 
Cornwall  ?  " 

Molly  sighed ;  the  idea  was  so  very  alluring. 

"It  is  awfully  good  of  you  to  suggest  it,  but  I  am 
afraid  we  cannot  think  of  it  for  a  moment." 

Patsy  came  running   in   presently,   and   insisted  on 


198  A  DREAM   OF   BLUE   ROSES 

Stephen  coming  out  to  see  Badajos.  He  was  very 
friendly  with  all  children,  and  Patsy  had  not  in  the 
least  forgotten  his  last  visit. 

"He  is  perfectly  beautiful,"  she  explained,  "and  has 
trousers  !  " 

"Not  really?"  murmured  the  man,  rather  surprised. 
"  I  have  heard  of  horses  wearing  hats  and  dogs  wearing 
coats,  but  never  in  the  whole  of  my  life  have  I  seen  a 
pig  with  trousers.  By  all  means  let  me  come  and  make 
acquaintance  with  this  wonderful  animal." 

After  he  had  gladdened  the  child's  heart  by  his 
unstinted  praise  at  the  unusual  beauty  of  her  pet,  he 
found  an  opportunity  for  a  few  words  alone  with  Molly. 

"Don't  you  think  you  could  really  persuade  Dick  to 
come  with  me  ?  " 

"No,"  she  said  sadly,  "he  simply  could  not  go;  he  is 
not  strong  enough.  I  doubt  whether  he  could  stand 
even  the  shaking  of  the  most  comfortable  car.  He  is 
better;  I  refuse  to  think  he  is  not  better,  but  he  suffers 
horribly  at  times." 

"Oughtn't  he  to  go  somewhere,  to  some  baths  or 
something?  I  should  think  there  must  be  some  treat- 
ment that  would  do  him  good." 

"Yes,  the  doctors  say  he  ought  to  go  to  Germany." 

"Can't  it  be  managed?" 

She  shook  her  head,  without  speaking. 

Stephen  looked  at  her  thoughtfully  for  a  moment. 

"Mrs.  Dick,"  he  said  rather  awkwardly,  "do  you  think 
it's  worth  while  letting  your  pride  stand  in  the  way  of — 
letting  a  pal " 

"My  pride  I "  echoed  Molly  quickly,  with  a  little 
tremor  in  her  voice.  "I  don't  think  T  have  any  left; 
but  Dick  simply  wouldn't  hear  of  it.  You  are  a  pal  of 
his,  I  know,  and  I  know  you  would  do  anything  that 
was  kind,  but  I  do  beg  of  you  not  to  let  him  even  see 
that  such  a  thought  is  in  your  mind.  He  has  got  a 
little  touchy  about  that  kind  of  thing  since  he  has  been 
ill,  and  it  would  only  upset  him." 

"I  don't  want  to  do  that,"  was  the  quiet  reply,  and 
.Stephen  said  no  more- 


FLORA  MOULTRIE  199 

He  thought  a  good  deal  more,  however,  of  the  matter 
as  he  travelled  back  to  town  that  night.  He  had  been 
really  shocked  at  the  alteration  in  Dick  Arkwright's 
appearance,  but  he  realized  the  uselessness  of  attempt- 
ing any  material  help,  however  carefully  it  might  be 
suggested,  and  however  thickly  disguised ;  the  man  was 
not  in  a  state  of  mind  to  accept  it,  even  from  a  friend. 
There  might,  perhaps,  be  other  ways  of  lightening  the 
burden  which  pressed  so  sorely  on  his  shattered  nerves 
and  fragile  body.  It  seemed  particularly  tragic  to  see 
Dick  so  sadly  changed,  and  undoubtedly  ill,  when  it 
was  quite  possible,  even  certain,  that  he  could  recover 
with  the  proper  treatment.  He  drove  up  to  his  comfort- 
able flat  in  Whitehall  at  a  little  after  seven,  and,  telling 
his  man  that  he  would  dine  at  home,  sat  down  in  his 
arm-chair  and,  lighting  a  pipe,  gave  himself  up  to  reflec- 
tion. The  room  was  very  comfortable,  not  to  say- 
luxurious;  the  walls  were  panelled  with  a  dark  wood, 
while  above  the  panelling  ran  a  frieze  of  a  light  colour 
on  which  were  arranged  several  trophies  of  arms  and 
other  curios  collected  during  his  many  wanderings.  On 
the  panelling  itself  hung  a  few  good  sketches  in  water- 
colour,  and  some  prints.  More  curios  were  contained 
in  a  Chippendale  cabinet,  many  of  great  beauty  and 
delicate  workmanship,  and  some  porcelain  of  consider- 
able value.  On  the  mantelpiece  stood  a  very  fine  Jade 
carving,  flanked  by  a  silver  Kwannon  from  Japan,  and 
a  fantastic  carving  in  black  crystal  from  China.  Alto- 
gether it  was  the  room  of  a  man  who  possessed  good 
taste  and  a  love  of  the  beautiful,  and  showed  that  he 
also  possessed  plenty  of  money  to  gratify  his  fancies. 

During  his  frequent  and  long  absences,  the  man  and 
his  wife  who  looked  after  him  had  charge  of  the  flat; 
for  although  he  used  it  seldom,  he  preferred  to  have 
some  place  which  he  could  really  call  his  own,  and  to 
which  he  could  return  at  any  moment. 

He  leaned  back  in  his  chair,  and  the  minutes  slipped 
by  unheeded.  It  was  curious  that  a  certain  little  refrain 
kept  recurring  to  his  mind,  a  little  childish  tune,  with 
fanciful  words — 


200  A   DREAM   OF   BLUE   ROSES 

"Je  n'ouvre  pas  ma  poite,  pour  un  patissier, 
Qui  apporte  la  lune  dans  son  tablier." 

Perfectly  senseless  and  absurd,  of  course,  but  they 
haunted  him  nevertheless,  and  before  his  eyes  there 
floated  a  picture  of  a  girl  with  soft  brown  hair  stand- 
ing in  a  sunlit  orchard  among  the  blossoming  trees. 
He  wrenched  his  mind  away  from  the  picture  more  than 
once,  but  it  recurred  in  a  most  irritating  way,  and  always 
with  the  little  melody  like  an  undercurrent  of  soft  music 
to  his  thought. 

The  telephone  bell  roused  him  at  last,  and  he  crossed 
the  room  to  the  instrument. 

"Hallo!  Yes,  that's  me.  That  you,  Flora?  I've 
been  away.  No,  not  to-night,  thank  you.  I've  only 
just  got  back.  It'll  be  back  to-morrow  or  next  day. 
All  right,  I'll  dine  to-morrow;  thanks  very  much. 
Good-night." 

He  sat  down  in  his  chair  again  with  a  murmur  of 
vexation.  Bother  Flora;  he  didn't  feel  a  bit  in  the  mood 
for  her  to-night.  Who  wanted  to  go  out  to  dinner  when 
they  had  a  comfortable  room  and  a  good  dinner  of  their 
own,  and  could  be  quiet  and  peaceful,  without  any 
chattering  women  asking  foolish  questions? 

Flora  Moultrie's  mother  and  Stephen's  had  been  first 
cousins,  and  although  the  younger  generation  had  never 
met  until  a  few  years  before  the  date  of  my  story,  they 
had  seen  each  other  very  constantly  of  late.  As  a  matter 
of  fact,  they  had  first  become  acquainted  in  Cairo. 
Stephen  had  been  passing  through  after  an  expedition 
into  the  interior,  and  had  come  across  Flora  Moultrie  and 
her  husband  in  an  hotel.  She  had  claimed  connection 
with  him,  and  as  it  happened  that  very  shortly  after 
Stephen  was  taken  seriously  ill  w-ith  a  bad  go  of  low- 
fever,  she  had  nursed  him,  and  practically  saved  his  life. 
Or  so  he  was  given  to  understand  when  he  became  well 
enough  to  understand  anything — he  had  been  far  to  ill  to 
know  or  care  who  nursed  him ;  but  during  the  long  and 
protracted  period  of  weakness  which  followed  Flora  had 
undoubtedly  been  kindness  itself,  and  gratitude  was  a 
very  strong  trait  in  Stephen's  character. 

He  had  since  endeavoured  to  return  his  obligation  to 


FLORA   MOULTRIE  201 

her,  by  any  small  attentions  which  lay  in  his  power, 
whenever  he  chanced  to  be  in  London.  For  the  last 
few  weeks  he  had  seen  her  almost  daily.  Flora  Moul- 
trie's husband  was  an  honest,  worthy  creature,  with  a 
partiality  for  loud  checks  and  the  latest  thing  in  waist- 
coats. He  had  no  particular  vices,  and  very  few  brains. 
Flora  herself  was,  or  rather  had  been,  a  very  pretty 
woman,  and  even  now,  when  she  was,  as  her  husband 
would  have  expressed  it,  dressed  to  kill,  might  easily 
pass  for  five-and-twenty,  instead  of  ten  years  older,  as 
she  actually  was.  She  was  small  and  slender,  and 
affected  a  plaintive,  rather  babyish  way  of  speaking 
which  some  men  found  very  attractive.  She  was 
thoroughly  bored  with  her  husband,  although  she  did 
not  as  a  rule  show  it  too  plainly,  and  very  fond  of 
having  some  one  of  the  opposite  sex  about  to  amuse 
her,  and  afford  her  the  interest  and  amusement  she 
failed  to  find  in  him.  It  is  fair  to  say  that  no  breath 
of  scandal  had  ever  been  busy  with  her  name.  The 
reason  for  this  might  have  been  that  she  was  very  wide 
awake,  for  all  her  babyish  manner,  and  valued  her 
position  in  society  too  much  to  risk  any  serious  folly. 

She  found  Stephen  Grant  a  pleasant  and  useful  com- 
panion, and  the  fact  of  their  being  cousins  made  it 
natural  for  him  to  act  as  her  escort  when,  as  not  infre- 
quently happened,  her  husband  had  engagements  of  his 
own.  It  is  undoubtedly  useful  to  go  about  with  some 
one  to  whom  theatre  tickets,  or  a  box  at  the  opera,  or 
supper  at  the  Ritz  are  matters  too  small  to  be  regarded, 
especially  when,  as  in  Flora's  case,  you  are  endeavour- 
ing to  swim  in  the  social  stream  on  an  income  a  good 
deal  smaller  than  that  of  most  of  your  associates. 

Flora's  little  parties  were  always  bright  and  amusing: 
she  took  pains  that  they  should  be  so,  but  she  also  had 
taken  considerable  pains  lately  that  they  should  consist 
mainly  of  married  women.  She  had  not  the  smallest 
intention  of  introducing  Stephen  to  any  girl  who  might 
take  his  fancy,  for  she  was  well  aware  that  attachments 
spring  up  between  the  most  unlikely  people.  She  was 
enjoying  herself  enormously,  and  she  had  no  wish 
to    relinquish    one    of   the   many    benefits   which    their 


202  A  DREAM   OF  BLUE   ROSES 

intercourse  afforded  her.  She  laid  herself  out  to  keep 
him  amused  and  happy,  being  quite  aware  that  if  he  was 
the  least  dull  he  would  probably  be  off  again  to  the  back 
of  beyond,  and  there  would  be  an  end  to  many  of  the 
extravagances  in  which  her  soul  delighted.  Knowing 
this,  she  was  determined  to  make  the  most  of  her  present 
opportunities. 

Stephen  dined  with  the  Moultries,  as  arranged,  on 
the  following  evening.  The  party  consisted  only  of  one 
other  married  woman  and  an  odd  man.  Jack  Aloultrie 
was  going  out  after  dinner,  so  the  four  of  them  went  on 
to  a  theatre,  as  Flora  had  planned.  The  gaiety  of  the 
evening  was,  however,  somewhat  spoiled  for  her  by 
Stephen's  announcement  that  he  could  not  make  some 
engagement  she  wished  for  the  next  week,  as  he  was 
gomg  away  again. 

"Where  are  you  going?"  she  asked,  with  a  pretty 
pout.     "You  have  only  just  come  back." 

"I'm  going  down  to  X-shire  again." 

Flora's  quick  suspicions  were  immediately  aroused, 
but  she  disguised  them  carefully.  Men  needed  to  be 
driven  with  a  light  hand  if  they  were  to  be  driven  at  all, 
and  this  she  knew  full  well. 

"To  Cousin  Anne's?" 

Flora  had  never  met  either  Miss  Leigh,  but  she  was 
always  careful  to  never  lose  an  opportunity  of  emphasiz- 
ing her  relatiojiship  to  Stephen. 

"No,  I  am  going  to  the  Arkwrights'.  He's  a  pal  of 
mine,  and  has  been  very  ill  for  a  long  time,  poor  chap." 

"How  sad  I  "  she  murmured  sympathetically.  "Tell 
me  about  him." 

She  learnt  from  Stephen's  short  reply  that  Arkwright 
must  be  a  man  of  his  own  standing,  and  mentally 
registered  a  note  that  there  could  be  no  daughters  to 
be  dangerous,  but  probably  a  wife.  This  she  did  not 
fear;  she  knew  Stephen  too  well  for  that.  Still,  it  might 
be  wise  to  remember  it. 

"Perhaps,"  she  said  in  her  soft  voice  a  few  moments 
later — "indeed,  I  hardly  like  to  suggest  it — but  perhaps 
you  would  be  perfectly  angelic  and  let  me  have  the  car 
if  you  will  not  be  in  London," 


FLORA   MOULTRIE  208 

"Vm  awfully  sorry,  but  I  am  afraid  I  have  arranged 
to  take  it  with  me." 

"Never  mind,"  she  returned.  "It  was  only  if  you  had 
not  wanted  it.  It  is  so  much  pleasanter  to  go  to 
Hurlingham  in  one's  own  thing.  One  never  can  find 
a  taxi  afterwards  when  all  the  crowd  is  coming  away, 
and,  of  course,  to  hire  one  for  the  day  is  quite  out  of 
the  question  for  poor  me.  I'm  going  down  to  a  function 
at  Hampton  Court,  too,  the  day  after,  and  then  there  is 
Lady  Vernon's  show,  too.  Altogether  a  very  busy 
week.  It  is  too  disappointing  you  won't  be  here.  I 
had  so  looked  forward  to  your  coming  with  me,  but  it 
can't  be  helped." 

She  waited  until  the  next  act  was  over,  and  when  the 
curtain  fell  again  she  said  plaintively — 

"Didn't  you  say  that  there  were  some  cars  for  hire  at 
the  garage  where  you  keep  yours  ?  I  wonder  if  the  man 
would  really  charge  too  exorbitantly " 

"I'll  ask  him,  if  you  like,"  said  Stephen  good- 
nattiredly. 

Flora  thanked  him  prettily,  and  begged  him  not  to 
bother  about  it,  but  was  quite  triumphant  when  she 
received  a  letter  on  the  following  Monday,  stating  that 
by  Mr.  Grant's  orders  a  car  was  at  her  disposal  for  the 
week. 

Meanwhile,  during  the  days  that  were  left  to  her,  she 
strained  every  artifice  to  induce  Stephen  to  make  some 
definite  plans  for  the  summer.  Once  she  could  pin  him 
down,  the  rest  should  be  easy,  she  thought,  but  in  this 
she  was  not  very  successful. 

He  agreed  that  a  fishing  tour  in  Norway  might  be  a 
very  pleasant  way  of  spending  September,  and  even  went 
so  far  as  to  get  some  lists  from  an  agent  at  her  request, 
but  further  than  that  he  did  not  seem  inclined  to  go.  He 
had  accepted  one  invitation  to  stay  at  a  country  house 
in  August,  where  Flora  and  her  husband  were  also 
invited.  The  date  had  not  been  actually  settled,  but 
she  reflected  with  some  complacency  that  it  ought  to  be 
easy  enough  to  keep  up  to  that.  She  was  not  lacking 
in  self-confidence,  and  anticipated  no  real  difficulty  in 
arranging  matters  to  please  herself. 


CHAPTER    XXU 

JEAN   PAUL 

**  What  act  proved  all  its  thought  had  been  ? " 

R.  Browning. 

Mrs.  Dodge  rushed  out  of  her  cottage  one  bright 
afternoon,  a  fortnight  or  so  later,  with  the  warning  cry — ■ 

"Tommy  !     Jest  you  mind  that  motter-'orn  !  " 

But  Tommy  was  standing  safely  inside  the  garderi 
gate,  his  face  pressed  close  to  the  bars,  and  his  eyes 
wide  with  wonder,  as  a  large  grey  car  swung  round  the 
corner,  and  pulled  up  in  front  of  the  Porch  Cottage  with 
a  warning  hoot.  Barbara,  looking  out  of  the  window, 
saw,  to  her  astonishment,  a  small  crowd  of  people  walk- 
ing up  the  flagged  path,  and  it  was  a  minute  before  she 
recognized  the  slim  figure  shrouded  in  dust  coat  and 
veil  to  be  Molly  Arkwright.  She  ran  quickly  out,  and 
soon  found  herself  in  the  centre  of  a  hubbub  of  voices. 
Patsy  was  shrilling  out  excited  words  of  explanation. 

"Oh,  Barbara,  we've  come  'cos  Stephen  brought  us  in 
his  lovely  motor.  It  was  such  fun ;  we  flew  ever  so  fast. 
So  fast  we  couldn't  hardly  see  the  hedges." 

"There,"  laughed  Molly,  turning  to  Stephen  Grant, 
who  was  behind  her,  "is  strong  evidence  that  you  pay 
no  attention  to  the  speed  limit.  Barbara,  dear,  I  am  so 
pleased  to  see  you.  I've  come  to  call  on  Miss  Leigh, 
and  I  don't  know  what  she  will  say  to  my  bringing  the 
whole  of  my  family  with  me,  but  they  simply  wouldn't 
be  left  behind.  All  the  boys  had  a  holiday,  and  Mr. 
Grant  packed  us  all  in,  and  here  we  are." 

"Where  is  your  husband?"  asked  the  girl,  looking 
round. 

"Oh  no,  Dick  isn't  here.  I  think  this  noisy  crew 
would  have  been  too  much  for  him ;  but  do  you  know, 

204 


JEAN   PAUL  205 

Barbara,  he  has  been  out  several  times  in  the  car,  and  I 
really  think  it  did  him  good." 

"Where  are  my  aunts?  "  asked  Stephen. 

"I  will  tell  them  you  are  here." 

"Yes,  do,"  added  Molly;  "and,  Barbara,  don't  you 
think  you  might  take  this  horde  into  the  garden  while  I 
see  Miss  Leigh  ?  " 

"That  is  the  nice  way  in  which  she  designates  her 
cherished  offspring,"  said  Phil,  laughing.  "But  come 
along,  Barbara.  I  want  to  see  round.  What  a  topping 
little  place  !  " 

"Isn't  it  lovely?"  agreed  the  girl,  as  they  trooped 
into  the  orchard. 

"A  jolly  good  place  for  birds,  I  should  think,"  said 
Lance. 

The  younger  boys  were  interested  in  natural  history. 

"Yes,  there  are  plenty  of  them.  Sammle  says  there  is 
an  owl's  nest  in  one  of  those  trees  in  the  field  over  there. 
I  haven't  seen  it  myself,  but  I  hear  them  calling  some- 
times at  night." 

"Oh,  I  say,  can't  we  go  and  look  at  it?"  asked  the 
boy. 

"Of  course  you  can." 

"Don't  be  too  long,"  said  Phil.  "Mother  may  want 
to  be  going." 

"Oh  no,"  cried  Barbara;  "I  am  sure  you  must  stop  to 
tea  now  you  have  come  at  last.  You  had  better  ask 
Sammle  where  it  is." 

"Who's  Sammle?"  asked  Phil. 

"The  old  man  working  in  the  garden  over  there." 

Phil  stopped  suddenly,  and  burst  into  a  roar  of 
laughter. 

"  What  is  the  matter  now  ?  "  demanded  Barbara,  join- 
ing in  his  merriment,  for  it  was  very  infectious. 

"  Did  you  ever  see  such  an  apparition  ?  " 

"Don't  laugh,"  said  the  girl  severely;  "he  is  a  dear 
old  man." 

"He  may  be  a  dear  old  man,  but  all  I  can  say  is  he 
is  exactly  like  Badajos." 

Sammle  Dodge  had  found  the  day  rather  warm,  and 


206  A  DREAM   OF   BLUE   ROSES 

had  discarded  his  outer  clothing  for  the  nonce.  He  was 
clad  only  in  a  woollen  vest  and  a  pair  of  black  trousers, 
which  were  secured  by  a  garter  of  string  below  the  knee. 
They  had  once  been  his  Sunday  best,  but  were  now 
degraded  to  humbler  use.  He  wore  no  hat,  and  as  he 
bent — nearly  double — over  his  weeding,  his  stout  figure 
and  his  round  face  and  perfectly  bald  head  did  certainly 
give  him  the  appearance  of  an  elderly  pig. 

"Oh,  do  be  careful,"  pleaded  the  girl,  stifling  her 
laughter.    "I  am  so  afraid  he  will  hear  you  !  " 

"Come  on,  boys!  Let's  come  and  beard  old  egg- 
face.  Don't  be  afraid,  Barbara;  we'll  be  fearfully  nice 
to  him." 

Sammle  raised  himself  as  the  happy  party  approached. 

"Owls?"  he  said  in  answer  to  a  question.  "Why, 
yes,  to  be  sure !  There's  a  nest  in  the  hollow  willow 
yonder."  He  pointed  as  he  spoke.  "If  you  go  up  along 
the  hedge  side  through  that  gap,  you'll  find  it  sure 
enuff." 

"Do  you  ever  see  any  kingfishers  here?  "  asked  Tony 
eagerly.  The  boy's  great  ambition  was  to  find  a  king- 
fisher's nest. 

Sammle  scratched  his  head  with  an  earthy  forefinger. 

"Can't  say  as  I  never  see'd  un  down  by  the  stream 
below  the  old  mill,  but  you  won't  find  no  nest,  I'll 
reckon ;  no,  not  till  some  Sunday  in  next  week,  then 
happen  you  might."  He  chuckled  softly.  "There  be 
thrushes,  and  chaffinches,  and  white-kitties  plenty  in 
these  parts " 

"What  is  a  white-kitty?"  asked  Phil. 

"Well,  young  sir,  there's  some  as  calls  'em  white- 
throats,  and  some  as  calls  'em  white-kitties — but  that's 
the  same  bird." 

Lance  and  Tony  marched  off  in  the  direction  he  had 
indicated.    As  they  went  the  old  man  called  after  them. 

"Seeing  as  it's  nestles  you're  after,  you'd  best  be 
careful,  sirs.  There  was  a  fine  nest  there  last  year,  up 
in  the  stump  of  a  tree." 

The  boys  looked  back  to  listen  with  interest. 

"If  so  be  as  you  find  it,  that'll  make  you  properly 


JEAN   PAUL  207 

hop.  Hornets  they  was,  as  big  as  my  thumb,  and  no 
mistake  about  'em." 

He  chuckled  again  at  the  look  of  disappointment  on 
their  young  faces. 

"I  thought  you  meant  a  bird's  nest,"  said  Tony. 

"  Eh,  boys,  they're  all  the  same,"  said  the  old  man,  as 
they  departed.  "I  was  just  like  that  myself.  Must 
always  be  huntin'  for  something,  huntin'  for  to  catch. 
Birds,  or  butterflies,  or  rabbits.  'Uman  natur  that  is. 
There's  many  a  time  as  I've  laid  in  a  ditch  for  to  catch 
one  of  Farmer  Strong's  rabbits,  aye,  an'  a  wet  ditch  too; 
but  there,  I  was  as  happy  as  a  little  pig  in  new  straw — 
I  didn't  mind  no  wet  when  I  was  huntin'." 

"I  have  a  little  pig,"  volunteered  Patsy  shyly. 

"Well'um,  have  you  now?  Why,  so  have  I.  Aye, 
an'  more'n  one.  Old  sow,  she  had  a  litter  of  as  fine  a 
lot  of  little  'uns  as  you  could  wish  to  see,  a  fortnight 
come  last  Tuesday." 

"I  call  him  Badajos." 

"Well'um,  do  you  now?  That's  a  strange  name  for 
a  pig,  ain't  it?"  The  old  man  chuckled  again.  "My 
grandfather,  he  fought  at  Badajos.  I've  his  medal  an' 
clasps  hanging  up  at  home  now.  I've  often  heard  my 
father  tell  how  his  father  fought  at  Badajos.  Fine  warm 
time  they  had,  too,  seems  like,  in  the  breaches  at 
Badajos." 

"Then  Badajos  really  had  breeches?"  asked  Patsy, 
with  deep  interest,  and  not  a  little  relief  in  her  voice. 
"Phil  said  so,  but  I  didn't  quite  believe  him,  because 
every  one  laughed  so  when  I  told  them." 

"Well'um,  I  reckon  there  wasn't  much  to  laugh  about 
in  the  breaches  at  Badajos,  if  all  I've  heard  be  true! 
I  could  show  you  the  medal,  little  missy,  if  so  be  you'd 
care  to  see  it.    I've  got  that,  sure  enuff." 

"Oh,  I  should  love  to  see  it,"  said  Patsy,  ecstasy  and 
politeness  mingled  in  her  voice.  "  I  am  so  fond  of 
Badajos." 

Sammle  stepped  on  to  the  path,  and  scraped  his  boots 
carefully  with  a  piece  of  stick;  then  he  resumed  his 
coat,   and   announced    himself    ready.      Patsy,   without 


208  A  DREAM   OF   BLUE  ROSES 

hesitation,  offered  him  her  hand  in  her  friendly  fashion, 
and  trotted  off  with  the  funny  old  man. 

"My  dear,  he's  a  perfect  old  gem,"  said  Phil,  when 
the  two  were  out  of  earshot.  "Fancy  his  having  a 
Peninsular  medal.  They're  worth  a  lot  of  money  now, 
1  believe.  I  wonder  what  in  the  world  Patsy  thinks 
she's  going  to  see  ?  She'll  probably  think  the  medal 
is  a  button  of  Badajos's  breeches !  " 

"  I  think  it  is  rather  a  shame  to  deceive  her  like  that," 
said  Barbara  through  her  laughter. 

"Who  is  deceiving  her?"  asked  the  lad  quickly. 
"Not  a  bit  of  it.  She's  blissfully  happy,  is  Patsy,  dear 
little  soul." 

"I  must  see  about  the  tea  now,"  said  Barbara 
presently. 

"All  right,  ril  come  and  help  you,"  was  the  cheerful 
reply.  "I  say,  can't  we  have  it  out  here  in  the  orchard? 
It  would  be  much  jollier  than  indoors." 

"I'll  go  and  see.    It  certainly  would  be  nice." 

Barbara  ran  to  the  parlour,  where  Molly  Arkwright 
and  Stephen  Grant  were  sitting  talking  to  the  old 
ladies. 

"May  I  put  tea  in  the  orchard  for  the  children,  Miss 
Anne?    I  think  they  would  like  to  have  it  there." 

Miss  Anne  looked  at  Molly. 

"  Do  you  think  it  would  be  warm  enough  ?  "  she  asked 
doubtfully. 

"Oh  yes,"  said  Molly  quickly,  with  her  pretty  smile. 
"  I  think  it  would  be  delightful ;  it  is  such  a  glorious 
afternoon." 

"Would  you  perhaps  care  that  we  should  all  join 
them?"  suggested  the  old  lady.  "I  have  not  seen  your 
children,  and  I  should  like  to  do  so.  We  frequently  take 
our  tea  out  of  doors  when  the  weather  is  suitable." 

"  I  should  enjoy  it  very  much  indeed." 

"I  will  let  you  know  when  it  is  ready,"  said  Barbara, 
and  she  hastened  to  make  preparations  for  the  enter- 
tainment. 

"Do  you  know,"  she  said  to  Phil  as  he  helped  her  to 
set  the  tray,  "this  is  the  first  time  we  have  ever  had  a 


JEAN   PAUL  209 

party.  Phil,  I  wish  you  wouldn't  put  the  cups  on  the 
plates  instead  of  the  saucers." 

"1  can't  see  much  difference,"  said  the  lad  cheerfully. 
"Let  me  cut  the  bread  and  butter.  I'm  a  whale  at  bread 
and  butter." 

but  his  subsequent  efforts  proved  that  his  previous 
experiences  must  have  been  more  in  the  way  of  con- 
sumption than  preparation,  for  Barbara  cried  out  in 
horror  at  the  result. 

"Oh,  la,  la!  Who  do  you  think  is  going  to  eat  a 
slice  nearly  an  inch  thick  ?  " 

"I  am,  for  one.  Very  neat  thing  in  slices,  I  call 
it." 

"  No,  no ;  go  away  !     I  will  do  it  myself." 

"How's  that  for  base  ingratitude?"  murmured  Phil, 
helping  himself  to  a  large  lump  of  sugar,  which  he 
scrunched  contentedly,  while  Barbara  covered  a  plate 
with  delicate  slices. 

"Do  you  really  think,  my  dear  girl,"  he  remarked 
presently,  "that  the  appetite  of  any  well-grown  person 
IS  going  to  be  satisfied  with  bits  like  that  ?  " 

"That  is  for  the  grown-up  people,"  returned  Barbara 
composedly.  "For  you,  my  friend,  I  will  bring  out  a 
large  and  wholesome  loaf,  so  that  you  will  have  no  cause 
to  complain  of  being  starved." 

So,  laughing  and  arguing,  they  continued  their  task. 
Between  them  they  carried  a  table  and  chairs  out  to  the 
orchard,  where  they  set  it  under  an  old  apple  tree. 
Repeated  journeys  to  and  from  the  kitchen  followed, 
until  the  repast  was  spread.  A  pile  of  dainty  cakes  of 
this  morning's  baking  (fortunately,  as  Barbara  reflected, 
it  happened  to  be  baking  day),  home-made  strawberry 
jam,  crisp  fresh  lettuce,  and  a  huge  cottage  loaf  and  rich 
yellow  butter.  Truly,  as  Phil  remarked,  a  feast  for  the 
gods. 

In  a  few  minutes  more  they  were  all  seated.  Tony  and 
Lance  returned  happy  and  hungry,  as  boys  ought  to  be, 
and  Patsy  arrived  safely  under  the  escort  of  old  Sammle. 
Barbara  presided  over  the  teapot,  at  Miss  Anne's  request. 
Miss    Margaret,   seated   beside    Phil,   was  engaged   in 


210  A  DREAM   OF   BLUE   ROSES 

recounting  reminiscences  of  her  vanished  youth,  and 
looking  even  more  coy  than  usual  in  reply  to  his  remarks. 
She  quickly  formed  an  opinion  that  he  was  a  most 
agreeable  young  man,  and  compared  very  favourably 
with  her  earlier  admirers. 

Miss  Anne  at  the  commencement  had  remarked  ner- 
vously that  she  hoped  there  was  enough  to  eat,  but  was 
reassured  by  the  enjoyment  with  which  the  young  people 
attacked  the  good  but  simple  fare. 

"We  are  so  unused  to  receiving  company,"  she  said, 
"but  now  that  you  and  your  children  have  found  your 
way  here,  I  trust  that  you  will  come  whenever  you  feel 
so  disposed." 

"It  is  through  your  nephew's  kindness  that  we  are 
able  to  come  to-day.  It  is  his  motor  which  has  made 
the  treat  possible  to  us." 

"I  wonder  you  have  the  courage  to  go  in  it,"  replied 
the  old  lady  nervously.  "  It  seems  to  me  very  alarming. 
So  much  has  altered  since  I  was  young.  So  many  ladies 
ride  bicycles  now.  It  is  quite  difficult  for  elderly  people 
to  accustom  themselves  to  the  changes  they  see  round 
them." 

"A  bicycle  is  very  useful  when  you  have  no  carriage. 
My  children  get  a  great  deal  of  fun  out  of  theirs.  Even 
Patsy  can  ride  a  short  distance." 

"I  think  you  must  let  me  send  you  one,  Aunt  Anne," 
said  Stephen. 

The  old  lady  held  up  her  hands  in  dismay. 

"Stephen,"  she  cried,  "what  should  I  do  with  a 
bicycle  ?  " 

"Oh,  I  didn't  mean  you  to  ride  it;  but  it  is  a  good 
thing  to  have  one  in  the  house,  for  messages  and  that 
kind  of  thing." 

Molly  said  nothing;  she  could  not  well  say  what  was 
in  her  mind,  but  she  was  thinking  of  the  pleasure  such 
a  thing  would  afford  to  Barbara,  who  had  been  regret- 
ting only  a  few  weeks  before  that  she  was  not  able  to 
afford  one  at  present.  The  four  miles  which  separated 
the  friends  would  be  nothing  then,  whereas  now  it  was 
rather  a  formidable  distance. 


JEAN   PAUL  211 

Stephen  carried  his  aunt's  cup  to  the  end  of  the  table, 
and  stood  beside  the  girl  as  she  filled  it. 

"There  will  be  a  good  show  of  apples  here,  if  one 
may  judge  by  the  blossom,"  he  remarked.  "But  I  sup- 
pose you  are  accustomed  to  it,  for  you  come  from  an 
apple  country,  do  you  not?  " 

"  Yes,'^  she  replied.  "My  home  is  in  a  district  where 
they  grow  in  great  quantities." 

"  How  do  you  manage  to  eat  so  many  ?  "  asked  Patsy. 

"They  don't  eat  them,  they  drink  them,"  said  Stephen. 

Patsy  looked  puzzled. 

"They  make  them  into  cider,"  he  explained,  "by 
putting  them  all  into  a  great  round  wooden  trough,  and 
rolling  them  with  rollers.  It  is  a  curious  sight  to  see 
the  old  cider  press  with  an  ancient  horse  tramping  round, 
half  asleep,  working  the  rollers." 

"Have  you  seen  it  ?  "  asked  the  child  again. 

"Yes,  1  have  seen  it  both  in  France  and  in  England." 

"  You  know  France,  then,  Monsieur  ?  "  said  Barbara 
shyly. 

"  I  know  it  very  well.    Whereabouts  is  your  home  ?  " 

"  Oh,  I  have  stayed  in  the  forest  of  Elboeuf,"  he  added, 
as  she  told  him.  "I  have  shot  there  with  a  friend  of 
mine.     It  is  a  delightful  part  of  the  country." 

The  girl  made  no  reply,  and  Stephen  glanced  at  her. 
She  was  standing  stock  still,  with  a  look  of  utter  con- 
sternation on  her  face.  He  turned  quickly,  wondering 
what  could  be  the  cause. 

A  young  man  of  most  peculiar  appearance  was  walk- 
ing up  the  flagged  path  in  full  view  of  the  party  under 
the  trees.  He  was  dressed  in  a  suit  of  grey,  with  a  cut- 
away coat,  the  tails  of  which  were  very  short,  and  wore 
a  large  red  tie  with  loose  flowing  ends.  In  one  hand  he 
grasped  a  rather  baggy  umbrella,  and  with  the  other  he 
removed  his  small  straw  hat  with  a  deferential  air  as  he 
perceived  the  ladies.  His  straw-coloured  hair  was  cut 
very  closely,  and  what  was  left  of  it  stood  up  quite 
straight  all  over  his  head. 

"Who  in  the  world  is  this?"  ejaculated  Phil,  and 
they  all  looked  at  the  stranger. 

T2 


212  A   DREAM   OF   BLUE   ROSES 

He  advanced  slowly,  bowing  low  several  times. 

"Miss  Anne,"  stammered  Barbara  piteously — "Molly 
—what  shall  I  do  ?  " 

"Is  this  a  friend  of  yours?"  asked  Miss  Anne  in 
surprise. 

"  He  is  not — a  friend — but  I  know  him — it  is  Monsieur 
Jean  Paul  Laurent.    What  shall  I  do  ?  " 

"Whoever  he  is,  he  can't  eat  you  when  we  are  all 
here  to  protect  you,"  said  Molly.  "Don't  look  so 
aghast." 

Miss  Margaret,  who  eyed  every  man  in  the  light  of 
an  admirer,  scented  a  love  affair  at  once,  and  grew  very 
excited. 

"  Sister,"  she  whispered  hurriedly,  "  we  must,  of  course, 
ask  the  gentleman  to  join  us." 

Miss  Anne  rose,  and  she  and  Barbara  moved  a  few 
steps  to  meet  him. 

"  My  aunt !  "  exclaimed  Phil,  as  he  watched  the  meet- 
ing; "did  you  ever  see  anything  like  the  way  he  bows? 
It  looks  exactly  as  if  he  were  being  jerked  from  behind 
by  a  bit  of  elastic.  And  look  at  his  tie  !  It  is  perfectly 
priceless !  " 

"Hush!"  said  his  mother  sternly.  Molly  was 
much  interested,  and  wondering  what  would  happen 
next. 

Miss  Anne  walked  back  with  Monsieur  Laurent, 
followed  by  Barbara,  and  when  they  reached  the  table 
the  little  man  bowed  again  all  round  the  circle  with 
scrupulous  care. 

"Bonjour,  Messieurs.  Bonjour,  Mesdames,"  he  said 
in  a  little  high  voice;  he  was  evidently  exceedingly 
nervous.  "Mademoiselle  Vincent,  I  am  enchanted  to 
see  you  once  more.  I  trust  I  do  not  intrude — but  it  is 
my  earnest  desire  to  have  a  few  moments'  private  con- 
versation with  you.  For  that  I  have  voyaged  to  your 
distinguished  country." 

Stephen,  who  was  standing  close  to  Barbara,  heard 
her  murmur  under  her  breath,  "Oh  no,  no  !  " 

"  Monsieur  will  first  refresh  himself  with  a  cup  of  tea," 
he  said  easily,  and  in  excellent  French.     "Take  a  seat 


JEAN    PAUL  218 

here,  beside  my  aunt."    He  pulled  a  chair  forward  as  he 

spoke. 

Jean  Paul  placed  his  hat  and  umbrella  on  the  ground, 
and  seated  himself  on  the  extreme  edge  of  the  chair. 
He  looked  supremely  uncomfortable. 

Miss  Anne,  with  gentle  dignity,  strove  to  put  him  at 
his  ease. 

"You  are,  without  doubt,  acquainted  with  Miss  Vin- 
cent's guardian,"  she  said.  "You  can  perhaps  bring  her 
the  latest  account  of  her  friends." 

Jean  Paul  looked  still  more  confused. 

"Non,  Madame,"  he  replied.  "I  regret  that  on  the 
occasion  of  my  last  visit  to  my  native  place  I  had  no 
opportunity  of  paying  my  respects  to  Madame  Maurice. 
I  live  now  in  Rouen." 

" How  did  he  get  my  address,"  thought  Barbara,  "if  he 
has  not  seen  Petite  M^re  ?  "  As  a  matter  of  fact,  Jean 
Paul  had  obtained  it  by  the  very  simple  means  of  bribing 
old  Albert,  the  postman,  to  let  him  peep  into  the  post- 
bag.  It  had  not  needed  much  pressing  to  make  the 
gossiping  old  man  betray  the  fact  that  Madame  Maurice 
had  posted  a  letter  that  afternoon. 

"Miss  Vincent  is,  I  am  sure,  very  pleased  to  welcome 
a  friend  from  her  own  home,"  said  Miss  Margaret, 
simpering. 

Barbara's  face  grew  pink  with  vexation,  but  Jean  Paul 
looked  distinctly  cheered  by  the  old  lady's  statement. 

"It  is  we  who  are  in  exile  without  Mademoiselle,"  he 
said  haltinglv. 

"  How  romantic  !  "  whispered  Miss  Margaret,  clasping 
her  hands.  French  people  always  know  how  to  put  their 
words  charmingly.  "That  is  indeed  a  delicate  com- 
pliment," she  added  out  loud. 

Barbara  felt  in  despair.  How  should  she  ever  get  rid 
of  the  man  if  the  old  lady  encouraged  him  so? 

"I  trust  your  mother  is  well,"  she  remarked  rather 
stiffly.  "She  was  no  doubt  distressed  at  losing  you  even 
for  a  short  time." 

This  was  rather  hard  on  Jean  Paul,  and  had  the  effect 
of  driving  him  into  silence.     The  prospect  of  meeting 


214  A  DREAM   OF  BLUE   ROSES 

his  mother  after  this  expedition,  of  which  at  present  she 
was  entirely  unaware,  was  far  from  delightful,  but  he 
fortified  himself  with  the  reflection  that,  should  he  be 
successful  in  his  quest,  he  should  not  have  to  meet  the 
intrepid  lady  alone.  He  was  hoping  to  be  able  to  per- 
suade Mademoiselle  Vincent  to  return  at  once,  under  his 
escort  if  possible,  but  at  any  rate  without  delay,  and 
marry  him  as  soon  as  the  necessary  formalities  could  be 
arranged. 

He  opened  his  mouth  once  or  twice  in  a  futile  effort 
to  speak,  but  was  daunted  by  the  company  in  which  he 
found  himself,  and  swallowed  his  impatience  in  two  cups 
of  tea. 

At  last  Miss  Anne  rose. 

"You  will  like  to  have  a  few  words  with  Mademoiselle 
Vincent,  Monsieur,"  she  said  politely.  "We  will  adjourn 
for  a  short  time,  and  thus  give  you  the  opportunity  of 
discussing  your  home  news  with  her." 

She  strolled  off  with  Molly,  leaving  the  others  to 
follow,  which  they  speedily  did,  and  Barbara  most 
unwillingly  was  left  to  entertain  her  unwelcome  suitor. 

"What  in  the  world  has  the  fellow  come  for?  "  asked 
Phil.  "I  can't  understand  his  lingo  myself.  I  never 
was  much  of  a  hand  at  French." 

"It  is  a  beautiful  and  most  poetic  language,"  said 
Miss  Margaret. 

"It  may  be,"  returned  the  lad.  "I  know  a  few  words, 
of  course.  Just  a  few  useful  sentences  like  '  Rien  ne 
vas  plus,'  and  *  Cherchez  la  femme  ' ;  also  I  am  aware 
that  the  French  for  legs  is  '  legumes,'  but  that  is  pretty 
near  as  far  as  I  can  go." 

Miss  Margaret  laughed  rather  primly. 

"You  are  mistaken,"  she  corrected ;  "*  legumes  '  means 
vegetables,  not — ahem  ! — what  you  suppose." 

"Shall  we  walk  this  way?" 

They  proceeded  along  a  path  which  brought  them  in 
a  few  rninutes  in  full  view  of  the  orchard,  although  at 
some  distance  away,  and  there  they  saw  a  sight  which 
held  Miss  Margaret  positively  enthralled  with  interest, 
but  which  sent  her  companion  off  into  a  muffled 
paroxysm  of  laughter. 


JEAN   PAUL  215 

Barbara,  looking  hot  and  flushed,  but  very  determined, 
was  standing  with  her  hands  clasping  the  back  of  a 
chair,  which  she  held  firmly  in  front  of  her,  while  on  the 
other  side  of  this  frail  but  effectual  barrier  Jean  Paul 
knelt  upon  the  ground,  his  hands  clasped  over  the  region 
of  his  heart,  his  face  and  his  voice  raised  in  impassioned 
entreaty. 

"I  say,"  muttered  the  boy,  "I  call  that  a  bit  thick. 
I  think  some  one  had  better  go  and  rescue  Barbara." 

He  found  his  mother,  who  was  walking  with  Miss 
Anne,  who  leaned  upon  her  nephew's  arm. 

"  I  say,  mother,"  he  began,  "  the  worthy  French  gentle- 
man is  getting  a  little  out  of  hand.  I  think  it  is  about 
time  some  one  got  an  oar  in;  he's  making  the  running 
pretty  hot." 

"What  do  you  mean?"  asked  Molly. 

"Well,  he's  on  his  knees  in  front  of  Barbara,  who 
seems  to  be  doing  a  bit  of  useful  work  in  warding  him 
off  with  a  chair." 

Molly  laughed,  and  looked  at  Miss  Anne.  She  could 
hardiv  volunteer  to  go  to  Barbara.  That  was  Miss 
Anne's  place,  surely. 

"The  gentleman's  attitude  certainly  sounds  a  little — 
dramatic,"  said  Stephen  calmly.  "Frenchmen  are  rather 
apt  to  be  excited  when  carried  away  by  their  feelings. 
I  think  I  should  join  them,  Aunt  Anne,  if  I  were  you." 

The  old  lady  hesitated. 

"But,"  she  said  timidly,  "Miss — Barbara  may  be 
reciprocating — I  certainly  trust  she  does  not — but  she 
may " 

"Oh,  you  needn't  be  afraid  of  that,"  said  Phil  quickly. 
"Barbara  isn't  quite  such  a  goose  as  to  want  to — er — ■ 
reciprocate  anything  to  a  little  bounder  like  that " 

But  Molly  stopped  him  with  a  gesture. 

"If  you  think  I  should  go,  of  course  I  will  do  so," 
said  Miss  Anne,  gathering  up  her  little  white  shawl  about 
her  shoulders  with  the  air  of  one  donning  armour  for 
the  fray. 

"You  go  with  her,  Mrs.  Arkwright,"  said  Stephen 
Grant.  "I'll  give  you  five  minutes,  and  then  I'll  come 
and  complete  the  rout." 


216  A   DUEAM   of   blue   ROSES 

Jean  Paul  rose  from  his  lowly  position  at  the  approach 
of  the  ladies,  but  so  ^reat  was  his  excitement  that  he 
was  utterly  unable  to  control  it. 

"Ah,  Mesdames,"  he  cried,  wringingf  his  hands 
togfether,  "I  beseech  you  to  help  me.  I  came — ^all  the 
way  from  Rouen — to  offer  to  Mademoiselle  Vincent — to 
offer — myself  !  My  intentions  are  all  that  there  are  of  the 
most  honourable.  But  Mademoiselle  will  not  hear  me. 
I  have,  in  consideration  for  the  feeliujEfs  of  Mademoiselle, 
removed  myself  from  the  house  of  my  respected  parent, 
thinking-  that  mv  wife  might  perhaps  prefer  to  have  her 
own  menage — I  have  entered  into  a  business  which 
enables  me  to  support  a  wife  in  a  position  most  respect- 
able. My  business  is  prosperous;  I  can  assure  to  my 
wife  an  income  of  at  least  four  thousand  francs  a  year, 
and  that,  MesdameS,  you  will  agree,  is  absolutely  satis- 
factory. My  character  is  without  blemish ;  mv  wife 
would  receive  every  attention."  He  paused,  and  then 
added  with  increased  fervour,  "Also  I  have  for  Made- 
moiselle an  adoration  the  most  profound " 

Miss  Anne's  gentle  voice  stemmed  the  current  of  his 
protestations. 

"I  have  no  doubt.  Monsieur,  that  all  that  vou  sav  is 
perfectly  true,  and  no  doubt  that  you  pav  the  highest 
compliment  to  Mademoiselle;  But  it  would  be  well  to 
discover  whether  she  views  your  distinguished  proposal 
with — with — favour " 

"No,  Madame,"  replied  Barbara  hotly.  " I  do  not  view 
the  proposal  of  Monsieur  with  favour.  My  gfuardian  has 
already,  on  my  behalf,  refused  the  proposal — that  is  to 
say,  the  proposal  that  Madame  Laurent  made  on  behalf 
of  her  son " 

"But,"  interrupted  the  little  man,  "I  come  now  to 
make  it  for  mvself,  to  assure  vou  personally " 

"Yes,  Monsieur,  that  T  understand,"  replied  Barbara 
firmlv,  "but  my  answer  is  the  same  as  that  which  mv 
g-uardian  made  clear  to  Madame  Laurent.  T  entirely 
decline  your  offer  of  marriage,  and  I  regret  that  von 
should  have  been  at  pains  to  travel  so  far  on  a  journey 
so  utterly  fruitless." 


JEAN   PAUL  217 

This  was  certainly  plain  speaking,  but  it  did  not 
prevent  Jean  Paul  from  repeating  the  numerous  advan- 
tages which  the  girl  would  reap  in  becoming  his  wife, 
and  from  repeating  the  embarrassing  assurances  of  his 
affection,  which  he  had  already  given  more  than  once. 

Miss  Anne  looked  flustered;  the  situation  was  becom- 
ing too  much  for  her.  Never  in  her  quiet  life  had  she 
been  called  upon  to  cope  with  a  persistent  lover  whose 
passion  brought  him  perilously  near  the  verge  of  actual 
weeping.  Molly,  although  she  understood  French,  had 
forgotten  a  great  deal  of  Petite  Mare's  teaching,  and 
could  not  collect  words  adequate  for  the  occasion.  Bar- 
bara was  looking  angry  and  scornful.  What  was  to  be 
done? 

"Monsieur  without  doubt  is  aware  that  the  train  leaves 
the  station  in  about  half-an-hour."  Stephen's  level  tones 
fell  like  a  douche  upon  the  heat  of  the  moment.  "I  do 
not  know,  of  course,  whether  he  proposes  to  return  to 
London  this  evening,  but  if  he  does,  I  am  reluctantly 
compelled  to  tell  him  that  he  must  be  thinking  of 
departing." 

Miss  Anne  held  out  her  hand. 

"I  will  wish  you  good-afternoon.  Monsieur.  I  can  but 
repeat  what  Mademoiselle  has  already  said,  that  I  regret 
that  you  should  have  had  a  fruitless  journey." 

"Bonsoir,  Monsieur,"  repeated  Molly,  bowing. 

"Bonsoir,  Monsieur,"  repeated  Barbara  inflexibly. 

Poor  Jean  Paul  glanced  first  at  one  and  then  at  the 
other  with  an  expression  not  unlike  that  of  a  frustrated 
rabbit,  and  then,  bowing  with  but  little  of  the  exuberance 
which  had  characterized  his  previous  display  of  polite- 
ness, he  accompanied  Stephen  without  another  word. 

"Monsieur  will,  I  trust,  accept  the  convenience  of  my 
car.  It  will  take  him  to  the  station,  and  ensure  his  rapid 
and  safe  arrival.  Permit  me  to  offer  you  a  cigar.  I  have 
found  a  cigar  most  soothing  on  occasions." 

The  Frenchman's  spirit  had  departed.  He  accepted 
the  cigar;  he  then  allowed  himself  to  be  conducted  to 
the  car  without  a  murmur,  and  in  another  moment  found 
himself  speeding  away  from  the  vicinity  of  his  adored 


218  A  DREAM   OF   BLUE   ROSES 

one  at  a  pace  which  made  the  safety  of  his  life  his  first 
and  most  engrossing  consideration.  For  the  time  at 
least  his  abject  terror  drove  all  thought  of  his  personal 
affliction  from  his  mind. 

For  Stephen,  who  for  some  reason  which  he  could  not 
have  explained  was  raging  with  suppressed  fury  under 
his  calm  exterior,  had,  by  way  of  working  off  some  of  hi^ 
feelings,  whispered  a  few  words  to  his  man,  and  that 
worthy  was  only  too  willing  to  follow  his  master's 
injunction  and  "drive  like " 

Miss  Anne's  only  comment  to  Barbara  upon  the  occur- 
rence of  the  afternoon  was  to  express  her  fervent  hope 
that  such  a  thing  would  not  happen  again,  and  the  girl, 
who  had  felt  some  apology  necessary  for  the  disturbance 
created  by  her  would-be  suitor,  could  only  echo  the  wish 
from  the  bottom  of  her  heart. 


CHAPTER    XXIII 


FAIR   DAY 


"Chafferings  and  chatterings  at  the  Market  Cross." 

Tennyson. 

The  old  square  at  St.  Ethel's  presented  an  unusually 
gay  appearance  even  for  a  Saturday,  for  it  was  the 
day  of  the  annual  fair,  and  in  addition  to  all  the  usual 
weekly  booths  which  stood  in  their  accustomed  posi- 
tions, a  quantity  of  gaily-painted  caravans  were  lined 
up  on  one  side  of  it.  Close  beside  them  a  merry-go- 
round  w'as  whirling  to  the  discordant  strains  of  a  full 
band,  as  represented  by  a  huge  orchestrion  which 
blared  out  popular  airs  at  the  utmost  strength  of  its 
iron  lungs.  Men  in  charge  of  cocoanut  shies  encour- 
aged their  patrons  with  forcible  and  cheering  remarks, 
while  above  the  din  echoed  the  somewhat  hysterical 
laughter  of  young  men  and  maidens  who  found  the 
precarious  angles  and  dizzy  soarings  of  the  swinging 
boats  highly  exhilarating. 

A  small  crowd  had  collected  round  the  seller  of  a 
much  appreciated  sweetmeat,  known  locally  as  "hum- 
bugs," large  lumps  of  sugar,  striped  brown  and 
yellow,  and  strongly  flavoured  with  peppermint.  The 
man  was  at  the  moment  engaged  in  manufacturing  a 
fresh  supply  of  the  dainty,  and  stood  beside  his 
caravan,  drawing  out  a  rope  of  sticky  sweetness  as 
thick  as  his  arm,  and  curling  it  back  upon  itself  with 
a  dexterous  twist  born  of  long  practice  in  the  art. 
The  further  end  of  the  "rope"  was  attached  to  an  iron 
hook  on  the  van,  and  again  and  again  he  looped  and 
twisted  and  kneaded  it  until  it  should  arrive  at  the 
precise  consistency  which  would  make  it  brittle  when 
cold.     He  punctuated  the  performance  with  scraps  of 

219 


220  A  DREAM  OF   BLUE   ROSES 

conversation,  and  his  rough  wit  was  evidently  well 
received  by  the  onlookers,  who  roared  with  laughter  at 
each  fresh  sally. 

Barbara,  with  a  large  basket  on  her  arm,  was  stand- 
ing with  the  Arkwright  children  watching  the  man 
with  interest,  not  unmingled  with  aversion,  for  the  state 
of  his  hands  was  not  all  that  could  be  desired. 

"Wait  until  he  has  finished,"  said  Tony,  "and  then 
we  will  buy  some  of  the  fresh  lot;  it  is  much  better 
when  it  is  freshly  made." 

"Oh,  Tony,  you  can't  eat  that;  I  am  sure  it  could 
not  be  good,  his  hands  are  so  dreadfully  dirty." 

"Can't  I?  That's  all  you  know;  and,  what's  more, 
you'll  find  it  jolly  good  yourself." 

" '  Humbugs  '  are  heavenly,"  murmured  Patsy,  with 
glistening  eyes. 

"Don't  look  at  his  hands  if  you  don't  like  them.  I 
expect  after  all  it's  only  the  suger  that  makes  them  look 
black.  Besides,  you  can't  be  too  particular.  So  long 
as  a  thing's  good,  it's  much  better  not  to  worry." 

After  which  philosophical  remark  Tony  dashed 
forward  to  obtain  his  pennyworth. 

"I  should  like  to  make  that  stuff,"  said  Lance.  "I 
wonder  how  long  it  would  take  me  to  learn  that  twist 
he  gives  it?  I  can't  see  why  it  doesn't  break;  he  must 
have  pulled  it  out  three  or  four  yards  before  he  flung 
it  back  again." 

"He  certainly  was  very  clever,"  agreed  Barbara,  "and 
I  grant  you  the  sweets,  now  they  are  finished,  look 
very  good." 

Tony  returned,  his  cheek  betraying  the  lurking 
presence  of  an  enormous  "humbug." 

"Jolly  good.  Here,  Barbara,  take  one.  Here  you 
are,  Pat.  Put  it  in  whole,  Barbara,  it's  not  a  bit  of 
good  to  try  and  bite  it." 

"But  supposing  we  meet  any  one,  I  certainly 
couldn't  speak  I  " 

"We  shan't  meet  any  one;  or,  if  we  do,  they'd  be 
in  the  same  state.  Every  one  eats  '  humbugs  '  at  fair 
time." 


FAIR  DAY  221 

"There!"  said  the  girl  in  triumph,  after  a  moment, 
"I  have  broken  a  piece  off." 

"Coward!  "  mumbled  Lance,  with  a  grin. 

Happy  but  speechless,  they  wandered  on  past  the 
rows  of  toys  and  china  and  odds  and  ends,  and  lingered 
for  a  while  to  listen  to  a  man  who  was  selling  cheap 
lace  curtains.  He  was  evidently  a  foreigner,  for  he 
wore  large  gold  ear-rings,  and  his  English  was  decidedly 
quaint. 

"Missus  !  Missus  !  you  come  buy — sheep  !  ver'  sheep  ! 
Goot !  ver'  goot !  Von  shillin'  'levenpence  for  von 
pair.  You  not  fin'  so  goot,  no,  not  in  any  ole  place 
as  vot  I  sell  you  'ere." 

"They  was  one  and  six-three  last  year,"  retorted  a 
buxom  woman  in  the  crowd. 

"But  not  so  goot.  I  haf  never  had  so  good  before, 
they  are  mooch  better." 

"  Garn  !  not  a  bit  of  it.  The  ones  I  had  was  just 
the  same,  same  pattern  an'  all.  The  very  spit  of  those; 
I've  got  'em  hanging  up  at  'ome  now.  I'll  give  you 
one  and  six-three  for  another  pair,  but  not  a  happence 
more.     Not  if  I  knows  it." 

"No,  no,  me  ver'  poor  man,  me,  and  all  things  ver' 
expensive  for  me.  These  goot  lace.  Cost  me  lot  of 
money.     Von  shillin'  elevenpence." 

"Have  it  your  own  way,"  was  the  good-humoured 
reply,  "only  if  yer  don't  want  my  money,  you  can  go 
without." 

The  man  waxed  excited,  and  vociferated  loudly ;  but 
in  the  end,  as  might  have  been  expected,  the  woman 
came  off  the  victor,  for  suddenly  he  rolled  the  article 
in  question  into  a  ball  and  flung  it  unerringly  right 
in  her  face,  while  his  assistant  youth  collected  the  hard- 
earned  cash.  The  populace  cheered,  and  the  woman 
marched  off  in  triumph. 

The  next  excitement  was  the  merry-go-round.  In 
vain  Patsy  and  the  boys  begged  Barbara  to  accompany 
them  and  taste  the  charms  of  riding  on  a  real  striped 
tiger,  or  a  ferocious-looking  crocodile. 

I'll  stay  and  watch  you.    You  go  on.     I'm  terrified 


222  A   DREAM   OF   BLUE   ROSES 

at  the  tiger,  and  the  crocodile  frightens  me  even 
more." 

Patsy  looked  superior. 

"There  isn't  no  sense  in  being  frightened,"  she  said 
loftily.  "I'm  not  frightened.  You  watch  me  do  it, 
and  then  perhaps  you'll  come." 

Barbara's  eyes  followed  the  happy  child  as  she 
climbed  up  on  to  the  fearsome  beast.  Tony  seated 
himself  behind,  and  held  her  tightly  as  the  machine 
started.  Patsy  gave  a  shriek,  half  ecstasy,  half  terror, 
for  the  tiger,  not  content  with  whirling,  was  executing 
a  most  uncomfortable  up  and  down  movement  at  the 
same  time. 

The  second  time  they  passed,  Patsy  was  hanging  on 
with  a  face  of  grim  determination,  but  presently  she 
settled  down,  and  was  able  to  wa:ve  and  smile  as  she 
passed.  Round  and  round  they  went,  until  at  last  the 
machine  slowed  down,  and  they  came  running  back 
again. 

"Oh,  Barbara,  it  was  heavenly!  First  I  was  a  little 
frightened,  but  after  you  got  used  to  it,  it  was  awfully 
lovely." 

"Oh,  let's  go  again!" 

"We  can't  go  again,"  said  Lance.  "We  finished 
all  our  money.  I  only  had  sixpence,  and  the  tiger  is 
twopence  each." 

The  child's  face  fell. 

"Are  you  sure  you  haven't  got  even  a  penny  more, 
because  we  might  go  in  the  car.    That's  only  a  penny." 

The  boy  turned  out  his  pocket.  "Not  a  one.  I  used 
my  pennies  for  the  cocoanut  shy." 

"Oh,  look  !  "  cried  Patsy  shrilly,  in  delight.  "There's 
Mr.  Stephen  !  Here  we  are !  Here  we  are !  "  she 
called  shrilly  at  the  top  of  her  voice. 

Stephen  Grant,  striding  through  the  throng,  turned 
in  surprise  and  came  towards  them. 

"Hullo,  Patsy!  How  are  you.  Miss  Vincent?  Did 
you  ever  hear  such  an  uproar  ?  " 

Patsy  danced  with  glee. 

"Isn't  it  lovely?" 


FAIR  DAY  228 

"You  wouldn't  think  it  lovely  if  you  were  staying 
at  the  "  White  Hart "  and  had  this  going  on  all  the  time 
under  your  windows,  as  I  have,"  he  returned. 

Patsy  gave  him  a  graphic  description  of  her  ride  on 
the  tiger,  adding  the  information  that  she  hadn't  felt 
a  teeny  bit  seasick,  although  Daddy  had  said  she 
would. 

"Oh!  do  make  Barbara  go  on!  She  won't,  and  I 
know  she'd  love  it !  " 

"No,  thank  you,"  said  Barbara,  laughing.  "I  feel 
safer  where  I  am." 

"Oh,  but  Mr.  Stephen  would  go  too,  wouldn't  you, 
Mr.  Stephen?  And  you  could  hold  her  quite  tight 
round  the  middle  like  Tony  held  me,  and  she  couldn't 
possibly  fall  off." 

"I  hardly  think  I  would  recommend  Miss  Vincent 
to  make  the  attempt,"  he  answered,  with  his  slow  smile. 
"You  go  again.  Patsy,  and  show  me  how  it  ought  to 
be  done." 

There  was  a  slight  pause,  and  Grant,  comprehending 
the  difficulty,  produced  a  coin  out  of  his  pocket  and 
gave  it  to  the  boys. 

"  Here  you  are.  Cut  along  with  you,  and  take  great 
care  of  your  sister." 

"Couldn't  we  spend  just  a  little  of  it  on  the  pig-faced 
lady  ?  "  asked  the  child  longingly.  "  I  do  want  to  see 
her  so  much." 

"No,  Patsy,"  said  Lance,  "Mother  wouldn't  like  it." 

"She  isn't  worth  seeing,"  said  Stephen,  with  con- 
viction. 

"  Are  you  sure  ?  " 

"Perfectly  certain." 

Patsy's  face  brightened. 

"Pm  so  glad  !  "  she  said  fervently. 

"It's  stopping  now!"  exclaimed  Tony.  "Come  on, 
or  we  shall  lose  our  chance." 

They  ran  off,  and  Barbara  and  Stephen  stood  watch- 
ing them  for  a  time,  until  the  girl  said  she  must  be 
returning  home. 

"  How  did  you  come  ?  "  he  asked. 


224  A  DREAM  OF   BLUE  ROSES 

"  I  rode  on  the  bicycle,  Monsieur." 

"  Does  it  go  all  right  ?  " 

"Oh  I  it  is  a  beauty,  and  I  can  come  so  quickly  now. 
It  used  to  take  me  so  long  to  walk,  and  now  I  can 
save  so  much  time.  It  is  kind  of  you  and  Miss  Anne 
to  let  me  ride  it." 

"Where  is  it?" 

"I  left  it  at  the  inn  at  the  top  of  the  street.  I  was 
afraid  to  bring  it  among  so  many  people  for  fear  it 
would  be  damaged." 

"Let  me  carry  your  basket  for  you,  won't 
you  ?  " 

"No,  thank  you.  Monsieur.     It  is  not  heavy." 

He  insisted,  however,  and  they  walked  on  together. 
Their  progress  was  of  necessity  slow  through  the  crowd, 
and  after  a  few  minutes  they  found  their  way  barred 
by  a  woman,  who  burst  into  a  stream  of  words  as  she 
caught  sight  of  them. 

"Let  me  tell  your  fortune,  pretty  lady.  Let  an  old 
woman  tell  your  fortune.  Isn't  it  the  best  of  all  that 
I  can  see  written  on  the  face  of  you  ?  Just  a  touch 
of  silver  across  my  hand,  kind  sir,  and  I  can  tell  it 
true." 

Stephen  motioned  her  to  stand  aside,  but  she  paid 
no  heed  to  his  gesture. 

"A  little  silver  coin,  kind  sir.  It'll  bring  you  luck. 
Let  the  pretty  lady  hear  all  the  fortune  that  will  come 
to  her.  It's  good  luck,  I  can  see  that  in  the  bright 
eyes  of  her,  and  I'll  read  the  future  written  on  her 
hand  as  plain  as  you  would  read  your  Bible  !  Don't 
say  '  No  '  to  an  old  woman  who  will  speak  the  truth 
to  you  !  " 

The  old  gipsy's  face,  although  deeply  lined,  bore 
traces  of  still  a  certain  beauty ;  she  must  have  been 
strikingly  handsome  in  her  youth,  and  there  was  some- 
thing pleasantly  attractive  in  her  voice  as  she  strove 
to  persuade  them  to  yield  to  her  demand.  Barbara 
could  not  help  smiling  at  her. 

"There,  now!"  was  the  instant  response.  "The 
pretty  dear  will  let  me  bring  her  luck.     She  wants  to 


FAIR  DAY  225 

know  what's  coming !  'Twill  be  a  rich  husband, 
dearie" — her  voice  dropped  confidentially.  "Let  an  old 
gipsy  read  your  hand,  you  won't  regret  it."  Then, 
turning  to  Grant  again,  she  repeated,  "Just  sL  silver  coin 
for  luck,  and  it'll  be  your  fortune  I  shall  see  plain  upon 
her  palm." 

Stephen  glanced  at  the  girl's  animated  face. 

"  Would  it  amuse  you  ?  "  he  asked. 

Barbara  laughed  merrily. 

"  Do  you  think  she  really  can  tell  what  is  going  to 
happen  ?  " 

"Yes,  yes,  dearie,  that  I  can,"  was  the  rejoinder,  and 
the  gipsy,  quick  to  take  advantage  of  the  first  sign  of 
yielding  held  out  her  hand  to  Stephen.  "A  bit  of 
silver,  master,  and  you  shall  hear." 

The  next  moment  her  pertinacity  was  rewarded,  for 
Stephen  tendered  her  a  florin,  and  quick  as  thought 
she  had  seized  the  girl's  ungloved  hand  and  had  crossed 
the  palm  with  it.  Then,  bending  over  it,  she  began 
to  speak  with  the  half  chanting,  half  mysterious  tone 
which  was  part  of  the  magic  rite. 

"You  have  crossed  the  sea,  and  you  will  cross  it 
again,  not  once,  but  many  times.  There  is  sunshine  in 
a  distant  land.  There  are  lives  which  cross  yours  as 
the  tracks  cross  the  open  moor.  There  is  a  dark  woman 
who  bears  you  ill  will — beware  of  her,  for  she  will  try 
to  do  you  harm.  There  are  two  men,  both  of  whom  will 
love  you,  and  one  of  them  you  will  choose,  and  there 
is  plenty  of  gold.  It  is  a  great  fortune — and  it  will 
come  to  you  before  many  moons  are  over.  It  will  come 
in  a  way  you  do  not  expect,  but  it  will  come.  You  will 
have  some  sorrow  first,  but  only  a  passing  sorrow,  and 
then  you  and  the  one  you  choose  will  walk  the  same 
track,  and  it  shall  be  smooth  under  the  feet  of  you. 
You  will " 

But  Barbara  drew  her  hand  away,  half  frightened  at 
the  gipsy's  eerie  way  of  speaking. 

"I  don't  think  I  want  to  hear  any  more  now,"  she 
said,  with  a  little  laugh  that  was  more  than  half 
nervousness. 


226  A  DREAM  OF   BLUE   ROSES 

"Then  don't,"  said  Stephen  quickly,  "we'll  walk  on. 
There's  nothing  in  it  really,  you  know." 

The  woman  drew  herself  up. 

"The  pretty  lady  has  no  need  to  be  afraid,"  she  said, 
with  a  certain  dignity,  "and  as  for  there  being  nothing 
in  it,  time  will  show." 

"Well,  you've  prophesied  good  fortune  at  any  rate," 
he  said  cheerfully,  "so  we'll  hope  it  will  come  true. 
Good  day  to  you,  and  thank  you." 

"They  always  tell  every  one  the  same  thing,"  he 
continued,  as  they  passed  on  their  way.  "A  dark 
woman  or  a  fair  woman  as  the  case  may  be,  who  is  to 
be  avoided,  and  lovers  and  a  fortune  dropping  from  the 
skies.  It  is  the  gipsy's  usual  stock-in-trade.  I  only 
hope  for  your  sake  it  will  come  true." 

"At  all  events  she  did  not  foretell  anything  dreadful," 
replied  the  girl  lightly;  then  she  added,  "the  inn  is 
close  by  now.  Monsieur.  Will  you  not  let  me  take  my 
basket;  please  do  not  inconvenience  yourself  for  me." 

"I'll  see  you  safely  started.     I  have  nothing  to  do." 

On  arrival  at  the  yard  he  wheeled  the  machine  out 
for  her,  and  helped  her  to  secure  the  basket  on  the 
carrier  at  the  back. 

"How  are  my  aunts?"  he  asked  meanwhile. 

"Miss  Margaret  is  as  usual,"  she  answered,  "but  I 
do  not  think  Miss  Anne  is  well.  She  has,  I  am  sure, 
been  sleeping  badly  of  late." 

"  Has  she  seen  a  doctor  ?  " 

"No,  Monsieur — and  indeed  I  hardly  think  it  is 
necessary  at  present,  but  I  have  noticed  she  looks  very 
pale,  and  seems  fatigued." 

"I  can't  come  over  to-day,  for  I  am  going  away  this 
afternoon,  but  I  hope  you  will  insist  on  her  sending 
for  the  doctor  if  she  doesn't  get  better." 

"I  will  do  my  best,"  replied  Barbara.  "But  Miss 
Anne  has  an  objection  to  doing  so.  Should  she  be 
worse  I  will  tell  her  that  you  wish  it." 

"I  ought  to  thank  you  for  all  your  care  of  her,"  he 
said.  "If  you  are  really  worried  about  her,  and  can't 
get  her  to  see  any  one,  will  you  just  drop  me  a  line?  " 


FAIR  DAY  227 

He  put  his  hand  into  his  pocket  as  he  spoke  and  took 
out  his  letter  case.  "I  will  give  you  my  address.  My 
letters  are  always  forwarded  wherever  I  may  be." 

They  were  standing  at  the  edge  of  the  pavement 
with  the  bicycle  between  them,  when  a  large  car  came 
swiftly  round  the  corner,  without  sounding  the  horn 
or  giving  any  notice  of  its  approach. 

"  Look  out ! "  cried  Stephe^n,  and  the  girl  sprang 
quickly  back,  escaping  the  wheel  only  by  a  few  inches. 

"What  in  thunder  are  you  doing,  sir?"  he  shouted 
angrily.  The  man  at  the  wheel  made  no  reply,  but  a 
lady  who  was  sitting  in  the  back  of  the  car  jumped 
up  and  waved  her  hand. 

"I  hope  you  weren't  startled,"  said  Stephen  quickly. 
"They  had  no  earthly  right  to  come  round  the  corner 
at  such  a  pace." 

"I  am  quite  right,  thank  you,"  she  answered;  and 
then,  taking  the  card  he  held  out  to  her,  "I  will  be 
sure  and  let  Monsieur  know  should  there  be  any  real 
anxiety,  but  I  do  not  think  you  need  fear  it." 

She  gave  him  a  little  bow,  and  wheeling  her  bicycle 
for  a  few  yards,  she  mounted  and  rode  away. 

Grant  stood  watching  her.  A  slim,  upright  figure 
in  a  dark  linen  skirt  and  dainty  white  blouse  such 
as  she  usually  wore.  Barbara  was  always  extremely  neat 
and  dainty  in  her  appearance,  and  wore  her  simple 
clothes  with  a  grace  that  made  them  appear  finer  than 
they  were. 

"  Hullo,  Stephen !  "  came  a  laughing  voice  at  his 
elbow.  "We  nearly  ran  your  charmer  down.  Who  is 
she?" 

He  turned,  to  find  Flora  Moultrie  standing  looking 
at  him  with  quizzing  eyes. 

"Where  did  you  come  from?"  he  asked  in  astonish- 
ment. 

"I?  Oh,  I  am  staying  with  some  people  for  the 
week-end  at  Daunton,  and  they  insisted  on  bringing  me 
over  to  see  the  Abbey.  I  can't  say  that  architecture 
is  much  in  my  line,  but  still  I  am  glad  I  came,  because 
I  have  met  you.     I  thought  perhaps  I  might  see  you. 

Q2 


228  A   DREAM   OF   BLUE   ROSES 

You  seem  to  find  St.  Ethel's  wonderfully  interesting. 
You  have  stayed  here  for  weeks  !  " 

"The  Abbey  is  certainly  worth  seeing.  It  will 
repay  a  visit." 

She  nodded  carelessly. 

"But  you  haven't  answered  my  question." 

"What  question?" 

"Who  was  the  fair  damsel  with  the  bike?" 

"That  was — she  lives  with  my  aunts,"  he  said  shortly. 

"She  did  look  like  nothing  on  earth,"  continued 
Flora  lightly,  "perched  up  with  that  basket  of  vege- 
tables behind  her  I  The  leeks  will  probably  jolt  out 
on  her  way  home." 

Stephen  made  no  reply,  and  it  struck  Flora  that  he 
was  not  in  a  very  good  temper,  so  she  tried  conciliation. 

"We  are  going  to  lunch  at  the  "White  Hart."  Come 
and  join  us,  won't  you?  We  are  quite  a;  cheery  party. 
Unless  you  are  too  annoyed  with  Bill  Harrison  for  his 
reckless  driving.  He  certainly  came  round  that  corner 
a  bit  fast." 

"He  did,"  retorted  Stephen.  "No,  thank  you  very 
much,  I  am  afraid  I  can't  come  to  lunch.  I  am 
lunching  with  the  Arkwrights,  and  going  off  to  Devon- 
shire directly  afterwards." 

"To  Devonshire?    That's  rather  sudden,  isn't  it?" 

"I  am  often  rather  sudden,"  he  rejoined.  "I  am  more 
used  to  moving  about  than  you  are;  and,  after  all, 
something  under  a  couple  of  hundred  miles  isn't  a  great 
matter." 

"Are  you  going  in  the  car?  " 

"Yes;  it  ought  to  be  rather  jolly.  The  roads  are 
good  going  now." 

As  they  walked  along.  Flora  was  wondering  what  in 
the  world  could  be  the  reason  of  this  sudden  journey 
of  Stephen's. 

"  How  long  shall  you  be  away  ? "  was  her  next 
question. 

"Oh,  I  don't  know.  A  fortnight  or  three  weeks," 
he  said  vaguely. 

"Here  are  the  rest  of  the  party.     Do  come  and  do 


FAIR   DAY  229 

the  honours  of  the  place,  and  show  us  what  is  worth 
seeing." 

"With  pleasure,"  he  replied.  "What  would  you 
like  to  see  first  ?  " 

She  could  not  question  him  further  at  the  moment, 
nor  could  she  discover  what  she  was  dying  to  know, 
namely,  who  the  party  going  to  Devonshire  were.  She 
could  only  summon  what  patience  she  could  muster 
and  await  events  to  enlighten  her. 

Before  they  parted,  she  reminded  him  of  the  engage- 
ment they  had  made  to  stay  with  mutual  friends  in 
August,  and  lightly  remarked  that  she  should  of  course 
be  seeing  him  before  that,  to  which  he  replied  that 
would  probably  be  the  case,  a  statement  which  did  not 
commit  him  to  anything,  and  which  was  hardly  reassur- 
ing to  her.  It  afforded  her  food  for  thought.  Unless 
she  was  prepared  to  lose  her  hold  upon  Stephen  alto- 
gether, it  was  time  that  something  was  done.  But  at 
present  she  could  not  make  up  her  mind  what  that 
something  should  be. 

Meanwhile  Barbara  rode  up  to  the  "White  House," 
where  she  found  Molly  very  busy  and  in  excellent 
spirits. 

"Isn't  it  splendid,"  she  said.  "Stephen  Grant  is 
really  a  kind  friend.  He  is  going  to  take  Phil  away 
for  a  fortnight's  fishing.  It  is  just  the  very  thing  for 
the  boy.     He  needs  a  holiday  so  badly." 

"It  does  seem  a  pity  your  husband  cannot  go  too." 

"Yes,  it  is;  but  still  I  must  be  thankful  for  smSll 
mercies,  and  I  was  horribly  bothered  to  know  how  Phil 
could  get  a  change.  He  has  been  working  so  hard. 
That  kind  Stephen  went  down  to  see  Mr.  Roach,  and 
settled  it  all  before  I  knew  anything  about  it." 

Phil  joined  them  a  little  later,  full  of  delight  at  the 
prospect. 

"We  are  going  to  drive  all  the  way  down,  and  then 
spend  our  time  pursuing  the  piscatorial  art.  I  shall 
return  an  ardent  disciple  of  the  venerable  Isaac 
Walton,  although  my  efforts  in  that  direction  have 
hitherto  been   restricted  to  the  use  of  the  nimble  but 


280  A   DREAM   OF   BLUE   ROSES 

despised  worm.  Well,  Barbara,  have  you  had  an 
impassioned  epistle  from  your  French  Johnny  ? " 

"No,"  returned  Barbara,  laughing,  "thank  goodness, 
I  have  not !  " 

"I  rather  wonder  at  it.  Poor  spirited  fellow  to 
yield  thus  easily  !  I  should  have  unloosed  the  fountain 
of  my  inmost  heart — not  the  fountain  pen,  mark  you — 
and  poured  my  blood  upon  the  unsullied  page  to  soften 
the  feelings  of  my  stony-souled  goddess." 

"Phil,  don't  talk  such  abject  rubbish!"  cried  his 
mother. 

"Words  indited  in  sanguinary  sadness,  running  red 
upon  the  virgin  page,  might  well  draw  tears  from 
Barbara's  eyes." 

"Oh,  stop,  do  !  "  commanded  his  mother.  "You  are 
really  too  foolish  for  words,  and  I  am  thankful  that 
Stephen  is  going  to  have  charge  of  you  for  a  bit." 

"  Have  charge  of  me  !  As  though  I  were  a  lunatic. 
Not  a  bit  of  it.  I  deny  the  suggestion  utterly.  Stephen 
and  I  are  to  be  companions,  not  warder  and  prisoner. 
In  fact,  to  tell  the  truth,  Stephen  will  derive  great 
benefit  from  my  society.  The  companionship  of  one 
whose  youthful  mind  is  so  full  of  enthusiasm,  and  whose 
eyes  are  ever  ready  to  behold  the  lighter  and  brighter 
side  of  life,  will,  I  am  sure,  be  of  inestimable  value  to 
one  who  might  be  called  a  trifle  weighed  down  by 
the  burden  of — well,  I  don't  quite  know  what.  What 
is  it  that  has  frozen  the  stream  of  our  Stephen's  youthful 
joy  ?  He  hardly  looks  like  the  victim  of  an  unrequited 
affection,  nor  does  he  seem  to  me  to  be  brooding  over 
some  secret  and  hitherto  unsuspected  crime  which 
weighs  upon  his  conscience;  but  he  is  not  as  light- 
hearted  and  debonair  as  I  should  like  him  to  be.  Nous 
allons  changer  tons  cela !  "  declaimed  the  boy  in 
atrocious  French,  and  in  an  accent  to  match  it, 
"also " 

"I  don't  want  to  hear  any  more,"  declared  his  mother, 
putting   her   hands  over  her  ears.     "Do   go  away!" 

And  putting  on  a  deeply  offended  air,  Phil  retired. 

"I  can't  stay  more  than  a  minute,"  said  Barbara.     "I 


FAIR   DAY  231 

really  ought  not  to  have  come,  for  I  have  wasted  time 
already  at  the  fair  with  the  boys  and  Patsy.  Miss 
Anne  will  think  I  am  lost." 

"Did  you  meet  Mr.  Grant?" 

"Yes,  I  saw  him;  he  is  coming  up  here  to  luncheon. 
How  is  Dick  ?  " 

"Just  about  the  same.  Perhaps  I  might  say  he  was 
a  trifle  better,  if  anything.  Stephen's  company  has 
been  good  for  him.  It  has  taken  his  mind  off  his 
weakness." 

"Which  day  can  the  boys  and  Patsy  come  up  to 
Fancy's  Farm  with  me?"  asked  the  girl.  "John  Strong 
is  always  asking  for  us,  and  I  think  they  would 
enjoy  it." 

"I  know  they  would.  Why  should  they  not  go  on 
Wednesday  ?  It  is  the  boys'  half-holiday,  and  they 
could  ride  over  and  pick  you  up  on  the  way." 

"Very  well,  that  will  do  excellently.  I  will  arrange 
it  with  John  Strong  next  time  I  see  him.  I  do  not  see 
him  so  often  now  that  I  ride  the  bicycle.  He  used  so 
often  to  give  me  a  lift  on  market  day." 

"You  enjoy  the  riding,  don't  you?" 

"Very  much,  and  it  is  kind  of  Miss  Anne  to  permit 
it,  because  every  time  I  go  out  she  expects  me  to  be 
brought  home  with  a  broken  head,  if  not  altogether 
killed.  I  will  come  over  one  evening  if  I  can,  and 
let  you  know  which  day  we  will  go  to  Fancy's." 

"  Do,  dear,"  said  Molly  warmly,  and  soon  after  the 
girl  took  her  leave. 


CHAPTER   XXIV 

VOICES    IN   THE  NIGHT 
"  Sad  experience  leaves  no  room  for  doubt." 


Pope. 


Barbara  sat  by  the  little  window  of  her  room  late  that 
evening,  her  elbows  resting  on  the  sill,  her  chin  propped 
on  her  clasped  hands,  and  her  eyes  gazing  out  into  the 
night.  The  room  was  dark  behind  her,  for  she  had 
extinguished  her  candle.  The  moon  was  shining 
brightly,  but  its  light  was  shadowed  now  and  again  by 
soft  clouds  which  floated  across  the  star-strewn  sky. 
Ever  since  her  childhood  it  had  been  her  habit  to  look 
out  at  the  sky  just  before  going  to  bed,  and  to  bid  the 
stars  good-night,  and  during  the  loneliness  of  her  first 
few  months  in  England  she  had  found  comfort  in  the 
thought  that  Petite  M^re,  peeping  out  of  her  window 
at  the  little  Pavilion,  could  see  these  selfsame  stars. 
It  seemed  a  link  between  them  across  the  distance  which 
divided.  Their  hearts  and  thoughts  could  bridge  that 
distance,  could  make  nothing  of  it,  just  as  those  twink- 
ling stars  made  nothing  of  illimitable  space.  Some- 
times Petite  M^re  would  write,  "Venus  was  bright  last 
night,  ma  bien  aim^e,  didst  thou  not  notice  it  ?  "  and 
even  though  perhaps  on  the  night  in  question  Venus 
had  been  shrouded  from  Barbara's  view,  still  behind  the 
clouds  she  was  certainly  there.  A  foolish  idea,  perhaps, 
but  strangely  comforting,  nevertheless  ! 

Everything  was  very  peaceful,  very  still.  Now  and 
again  a  sound  would  break  the  stillness,  but  it  would 
be  a  homely,  everyday  sound,  such  as  a  dog  barking  in 
the  village,  or  a  sheep  bleating  in  the  meadow  beyond 
the  orchard.  The  perfume  of  a  sweetbrier  bush  below 
her  window  scented  the  air,  and  close  to  her  she  could 

232 


VOICES   IN   THE   NIGHT  288 

see  a  spray  of  the  rose  which  clambered  up  the  side  of 
the  cottage.  At  the  end  of  the  spray  was  a  cluster  of 
buds,  some  of  them  already  showing  a  glimpse  of  white, 
which  would  presently  burst  into  delicate  blossom. 
Truly  there  were,  as  P^re  Joseph  had  told  her,  many 
roses  in  life,  white  and  pink  and  damask.  The  garden 
was  full  of  rose  trees,  all  coming  into  bloom.  They  were 
beautiful,  and  she  loved  them,  although  they  were  not 
blue  roses — she  smiled  a  little  sadly.  Evidently  blue 
roses  were  not  for  her.  It  was  vain  to  hope  for  them. 
She  thought  of  the  gipsy's  prophecy,  of  the  fortune 
which  was  to  come  to  her  before  many  moons  had 
passed,  but — what  a  ridiculous  idea — certainly  not  worth 
consideration.  It  was  without  doubt  true,  as  Monsieur 
Stephen  had  said,  that  such  pleasant  predictions  were 
part  of  a  fortune-teller's  business.  It  was  their  affair  to 
foretell  only  good  things,  such  as  lovers  and  a  fortune, 
but  most  decidedly  she  had  made  a  mistake  this  time. 
In  this  case  the  absurdity  was  proved  by  the  mention  of 
a  dark  woman  who  bore  her  ill-will,  for  she  knew  no  one 
who  could  be  said  to  answer  the  description.  No,  no, 
the  dreams  of  her  fortune  and  her  journey  with  Petite 
M6re  were  just  nothing  but  Blue  Roses.  Flowers 
growing  only  in  the  realm  of  the  Unattainable. 

Although  by  dint  of  strict  economy  and  a  certain 
amount  of  self-sacrifice  she  might  be  able  to  save  enough 
money  for  a  visit  home  after  a  year  or  two,  yet  it  was 
obviously  absurd  and  out  of  all  reason  to  contemplate 
the  possibility,  however  remote,  of  earning  enough  for 
that  longer  journey — "to  find  the  fairies,"  as  Petite 
M^re  had  called  it.  In  spite  of  all  her  determination  to 
put  aside  all  vain  longings  and  expectations,  Barbara 
had  not  found  it  easy  to  uproot  the  last  lingering  hope 
from  her  mind.  Her  Petite  Fortune  had  been  to  her 
for  so  long  the  Golden  Key  which  was  to  unlock  a 
veritable  world  of  delight,  that  it  was  difficult  to  realize 
that  the  enchanted  door  must  remain  closed  for  ever. 
But  now,  this  evening,  after  many  and  repeated  inquiries 
on  the  part  of  Petite  M^re,  she  had  written  and  told  her 
the   whole   truth   at  last.     She   had   also   written  more 


284  A  DREAM   OF   BLUE   ROSES 

fully  as  to  the  state  of  her  own  mind  and  feelings  than 
ever  before,  for  at  last  she  could  say  that  she  was  quite 
happy  in  her  new  life.  As  she  thought  this  over  she 
wondered  a  little  at  herself,  because  it  was  not  so  very 
long  since  Molly  had  asked  the  question,  and  she  had 
not  been  able  to  answer  it  in  the  affirmative ;  and  yet 
to-night,  in  writing  to  Ch^rie,  she  had  not  hesitated  to 
say  it,  and  she  knew  that  it  was  true. 

She  was  quite  happy.  What  had  made  the  differ- 
ence ?  Was  she,  perhaps,  becoming  accustomed  to  exile, 
or  was  it  the  beauty  and  the  brightness  of  summer  that 
affected  her,  and  made  her  so  gay  at  heart  ?  It  was 
certainly  not  that  distance  lessened  her  affection  for 
Petite  M^re  and  for  her  "home,  with  all  its  cherished 
associations;  no,  decidedly  not — she  thought  of  them 
constantly  with  the  fondest  love ;  but  for  all  her  earnest 
desire  to  see  them  again  she  was  aware  that  she  could 
not  part  from  her  present  surroundings  without  the  deep- 
est regret.  Dear  Miss  Anne,  with  her  gentle  kindness ; 
simple  Miss  Margaret,  with  her  foolish  affectionate 
ways;  and  Molly,  and  the  children,  they  were  all  so 
dear  to  her  now.  They  had,  one  and  all,  shown  her  so 
much  kindness — they  had  made  her  feel  so  one  with 
them.  Oh,  if  Fate  had  only  ordered  otherwise,  and  her 
Golden  Key  had  turned  in  the  lock,  what  could  she  not 
have  done  for  Molly?  Poor  Molly,  harassed  and  dis- 
tressed by  circumstances  against  which  she  fought  so 
bravely.  Then  her  thoughts  turned  to  Miss  Anne,  and 
the  question  of  her  health.  It  was  quite  true,  as  she 
had  told  Stephen  Grant  earlier  that  day,  that  Miss  Anne 
was  far  from  well.  The  old  lady  had  not  complained, 
indeed  she  seemed  to  resent  any  allusion  to  the  subject, 
but  there  was  no  doubt  that  she  suffered  greatly  from 
loss  of  sleep,  and  that  her  nervousness  had  increased  of 
late. 

For  the  first,  Barbara  thought  she  knew  the  reason. 
The  noise  in  the  lane,  which  she  had  noticed  on  the  first 
evening  of  her  arrival  at  the  Porch  Cottage,  and  at 
intervals  during  the  whole  time  she  had  lived  there, 
had  occurred  more  frequently  during  the  last  fortnight 


VOICES   IN   THE   NIGHT  285 

or  so.  She  had  heard  it  certainly  twice  and  sometimes 
three  times  a  week. 

It  evidently  disturbed  Miss  Anne,  and  Barbara  won- 
dered whether  something  could  not  be  done  to  stop  the 
annoyance.  It  was  surely  abominable  that  old  ladies, 
living  in  a  quiet  country  village,  should  be  alarmed  night 
after  night  by  some  noisy  labourer  returning  from  an 
evening  spent  at  the  "Fiddle."  She  thought  of  telling 
John  Strong  about  it,  and  asking  him  if  he  could  not 
do  something.  There  was  no  question  but  that  Miss 
Anne  was  terrified  by  it.  It  was  unreasonable,  because 
it  could  mean  no  possible  danger  to  her,  but  that  was 
neither  here  nor  there.  One  evening  the  shouting  had 
been  clearly  audible  just  as  the  sisters  were  going  to 
bed,  and  Miss  Anne  had  run  hurriedly  to  the  door  and 
pushed  at  the  bolts,  which  were  already  perfectly 
securely  fastened,  and  then  had  stood  with  a  scared, 
ashen  face,  almost  fainting  with  agitation.  Barbara  had 
in  vain  assured  her  that  no  one  could  possibly  enter, 
and  that  she  was  perfectly  safe.  Miss  Anne  had 
remained  as  if  frozen  into  stone,  and  had  not  spoken 
again  that  night. 

The  disturbance  was  getting  on  her  nerves,  and  if  it 
did  not  cease,  she  would  undoubtedly  become  seriously 
ill.  The  whole  matter  was  rather  mysterious,  and  in  the 
face  of  Miss  Anne's  reticence,  Barbara  had  not  liked  to 
tell  Stephen  Grant  the  real  cause  of  her  failing  health. 
She  told  herself  that  she  would  be  on  the  watch  in 
future,  and  take  care  that  Miss  Anne  should  never  be 
alone  at  these  times  which  tried  her  so  much. 

Hark !  What  was  that  ?  Voices !  Oh,  it  was 
abominable ! 

Never  had  it  happened  so  late  at  night  before,  and 
just  now  poor  Miss  Anne  would  probably  be  awakened 
from  her  first  sleep.  The  girl  leaned  further  out  as  the 
sounds  came  nearer,  thinking  perhaps  that  she  would 
see  who  the  offender  was,  and  be  able  to  put  kind  John 
Strong  on  his  track,  but  the  moon  had  disappeared 
behind  a  cloud,  and  the  light  was  very  faint.  Nearer 
and  nearer  came  the  footsteps.     There  must  be  two  men, 


286  A   DREAM   OF   BLUE   ROSES 

she  thought,  from  the  steps.  And  nearer  came  the 
sound  of  singing.  It  seemed  always  to  be  the  same  tune, 
a  tune  she  did  not  know,  and  it  was  always  roared  out 
in  a  strong  and  hearty  voice. 

Listen  ! — she  could  hear  it  more  clearly  to-night,  she 
had  never  chanced  to  be  at  the  open  window  before. 

"  Of  all  the  wives  as  e'er  you  know — O — O — O 
Yeo,  ho  !     lads,  ho  !  Yeo,  ho  !  lads,  ho  ! 
There's  none  like  Nancy  Lee  I  trow — O — O — O 
Yeo,  ho  !  Yeo,  ho  !  Yeo,  ho  !  " 

"Strange,"  thought  the  listening  girl,  "that  is  surely 
the  song  of  which  Miss  Margaret  spoke  the  other  day. 
It  was,  I  suppose,  fashionable  when  she  was  young,  and 
is  now  sung  by  the  peasants  !  " 

Apparently  the  singer  had  halted  at  the  wicket  gate, 
for  Barbara  was  almost  sure  she  heard  it  rattle.  Then 
another  voice  spoke.  Husky,  half  whispering,  but 
perfectly  distinct — 

"For  the  love  of  God,  will  you  be  coming  home  now  ? 
sure  you'll  be  disturbin'  of  the  ladies  wid  your  noise  !  " 

"See  there  she  stands  and  waves  her  hand  upon  the  quay. 
An'  ev'ry  day  when  I'm  away  she'll  watch  for  me. 
An'  whisper  low  when  tempests  blow  for  Jack  at  sea 
Yeo,  ho !  lads,  ho  !  Yeo,  ho  ! " 

"Arrah  !  will  ye  not  come  home,"  repeated  the  second 
voice,  almost  in  a  wail. 

The  light  was  brighter  now,  and  for  a  second  Bar- 
bara caught  a  glimpse  of  two  men  standing  by  the 
gate,  but  the  next  moment  it  was  too  dark  again.  There 
followed  sounds  which  indicated  a  slight  scuffle,  as 
though  the  second  man  had  tried  a  more  forcible  means 
of  persuasion  and  with  some  success,  for  the  footsteps 
began  again,  and  the  singing  seemed  passing  further 
off. 

Still  Barbara  watched ;  she  knew  a  bit  of  the  lane 
about  twenty  yards  further  on  was  visible  from  where 
she  stood,  and  she  waited  in  the  hope  that  the  cloud 
would  drift  away  soon  enough  for  her  to  see,  and,  if 


VOICES   IN  THE   NIGHT  237 

possible,  to  recognize  the  man,  for  she  knew  most  of 
the  villagers  well  enough  by  sight. 

And  then,  for  one  brief  second  she  saw  them.  There 
were  two  men,  and  one  was  holding  the  other  by  the 
arm.  The  one  thus  held  was  reeling  as  he  walked,  and 
It  was  evident  that  although  his  voice  was  steady,  or 
fairly  so,  his  legs  were  very  much  the  reverse.  But 
their  backs  were  towards  her,  and  she  could  distinguish 
nothing  that  gave  her  the  slightest  clue  to  their  identity. 

When  all  was  still  again,  she  came  away  from  the 
window  and  went  to  bed,  feeling  furiously  indignant 
with  the  offenders ;  but  even  indignation  will  not  keep 
sleep  from  healthy  youth,  and  in  a  few  minutes  she  was 
lost  in  dreamless  slumber. 

Meanwhile,  in  the  adjoining  room.  Miss  Anne  lay 
crouched — shaking  in  every  limb,  her  thin  hands  pressed 
against  her  ears,  her  poor  heart  beating  wildly  with 
heavy,  intermittent  throbs — too  frightened  to  move,  too 
anguished  even  to  pray. 

Barbara  came  down  next  morning  with  her  mind 
fully  made  up.  She  would  certainly  speak  to  John 
Strong  next  time  she  saw  him.  There  must  be  an  end 
to  it. 

Miss  Anne  looked  pitifully  white  and  frail,  but  she 
put  the  girl's  sympathetic  inquiries  aside,  kindly  but 
quite  firmly,  and  went  about  her  usual  occupations  with 
a  pretence  at  composure. 

She  announced,  however,  that  she  should  not  go  to 
church.  This  was  contrary  to  her  habit,  for  Miss  Anne 
was  regular  in  her  devotions,  although  Miss  Margaret 
seldom  accompanied  her.  Barbara  felt  so  troubled  by 
the  appearance  of  the  elder  lady  that  she  stayed  indoors 
so  as  to  be  at  hand  if  needed;  but  after  tea  Miss  Anne 
herself  suggested  that  she  should  go  to  evening  service, 
and  the  girl,  unwilling  to  oppose  her,  agreed  and  went. 

Fiddler's  Green  was  an  outlying  part  of  the  parish 
of  St.  Ethel's,  and  the  services  were  usually  taken  by 
the  senior  curate,  Mr.  Poole  but  rarely  coming  over  to 
preach  except  on  some  special  occasion.   The  former,  who 


288  A  DREAM   OF   BLUE   ROSES 

officiated  this  evening,  was  a  worthy  young  man,  but  a 
most  indifferent  preacher,  and  Barbara's  thoughts 
wandered  very  far  from  the  clauses  of  his  discourse. 
She  was  thinking  of  the  pasteur  at  home,  and  the  simple 
services  in  the  bare  little  church  where  the  congregation 
of  scarcely  a  dozen  souls  had  sung  the  old  French 
metrical  version  of  the  Psalms  with  more  vigour  than 
musical  knowledge,  while  his  old  sister.  Mademoiselle 
Fran9oise,  as  she  was  called,  pedalled  away  on  the 
wheezy  harmonium  with  her  short-sighted  eyes  within 
an  inch  of  the  book.  She  had  a  very  pointed  nose,  and 
looked  very  comic  when  she  played,  but  the  recollection 
was  a  part,  and  a  dear  part,  of  the  old  home  life.  So 
lost  in  her  thoughts  was  the  girl  that  she  forgot  where 
she  was,  until  with  a  start  she  found  that  all  had  risen 
to  sing  the  closing  hymn,  and  the  service  was  over. 

She  found  her  place  in  her  hymn-book,  but  it  was  one 
she  did  not  know,  and  so  she  listened  instead  of  joining 
in  it.  Presently  she  became  aware  of  a  man  singing  in 
a  shaky  but  powerful  voice  close  behind  her,  and  all  at 
once  it  struck  her  that  the  voice  sounded  very  much  the 
same  as  the  one  that  she  had  heard  in  the  lane  on  the 
previous  evening.  It  was  strange  that  the  voice  of  some 
one  singing  a  hymn  in  church  should  resemble  the 
somewhat  hilarious  song  of  last  night,  but  certainly 
some  of  the  notes  sounded  very  much  the  same  !  She 
was  sitting  in  Miss  Leigh's  pew,  which  was  rather  far 
up  the  aisle,  and  as  she  turned,  a  few  minutes  later,  to 
leave  the  church,  she  glanced  quickly  to  see  w'ho  had 
been  sitting  behind  her.  But  no,  she  must  have  been 
mistaken  in  the  direction  from  which  the  sound  had 
come,  for  in  the  seats  close  by  were  only  a  few  women, 
two  small  boys,  and  old  Major  Vasey,  who,  with  his 
tall  hat  in  his  hand,  and  with  an  expression,  if  anything, 
more  melancholy  than  ever,  was  just  walking  into  the 
aisle.  "Poor  old  man,"  she  thought  to  herself,  "he 
certainly  is  the  saddest  old  thing  I  have  ever  seen.  I 
wonder  what  his  life  has  been,  and  whether  he  has  spent 
the  whole  of  it  at  Fiddler's  Green,  paying  short  but 
frequent  calls  upon  dear  Miss  Anne.    I  wonder  if  Miss 


VOICES   IN  THE   NIGHT  289 

Anne  refused  him  in  tlie  days  of  her  youth,  and  whether 
that  is  the  reason  of  his  sadness  ?  " 

It  so  happened  that  Miss  Margaret  had  one  of  her  bad 
turns  the  next  day ;  Barbara  was  too  much  occupied  in 
helping  Miss  Anne  to  look  after  her  to  have  time  to 
carry  out  her  intention  of  speaking  to  John  Strong,  and 
before  the  week  had  passed,  something  happened  which 
made  that  course  of  action  impossible. 

Miss  Margaret  kept  to  her  bed  for  two  or  three  days, 
but  although  still  upstairs  she  was  more  or  less  herself 
again,  when  one  evening,  at  about  five  o'clock,  Barbara 
asked  Miss  Anne  to  come  out  into  the  garden  to  see  the 
roses.  It  was  beautifully  warm,  and  the  fresh  air  would 
do  her  good.  She  fetched  a  light  shawl,  and  threw  it 
across  the  old  lady's  shoulders,  and  offering  her  her 
arm,  led  her  out  for  a  little  stroll. 

"  I  want  you  to  come  and  see  the  bush  at  the  bottom 
of  the  garden,"  she  said.  "It  has  fully  two  dozen 
splendid  buds  on  it,  I  am  sure." 

"It  always  blooms  well,"  answered  Miss  Anne.  "Mr. 
Poole  gave  it  to  me.  It  was  a  cutting  from  one  in  his 
own  garden,  and  Sammle  Dodge  budded  it  on  to  a 
brier.  Last  year  the  caterpillars  spoiled  many  of  the 
flowers,  and  the  leaves  too." 

"This  year  they  shall  not  have  a  chance,"  said  Bar- 
bara brightly.  "  I  will  make  war  on  the  caterpillars  and 
destroy  them.  See,  here  is  one  now,  a  tiny  baby  one, 
curled  up  inside  the  leaf.  That  one  will  not  live  to  eat 
the  roses  !  I  must  spray  them  with  soapy  water,  that 
is  a  good  thing.  There  is  going  to  be  a  good  quantity 
of  lavender,  Miss  Anne.  That  will  be  useful  for  the 
presses,  won't  it  ?  " 

Miss  Anne  smiled  at  the  girl's  manner. 

"Very  useful,"  she  assented;  "we  will  tie  it  up  in 
muslin  bags  when  it  is  ripe  and  dried.  You  do  not  find 
the  days  too  dull  here,  I  hope,  Barbara  ? "  she  said 
timidly ;  "  1  am  afraid  you  have  not  a  great  deal  of 
gaiety." 

"I  do  not  find  them  at  all  dull.  There  is  always  so 
much  to  be  done.     All  these  last  few  mornings  I  have 


240  A  DREAM   OF   BLUE   ROSES 

been  saying  to  myself,  '  To-day  I  will  weed  Miss 
Margaret's  garden,  so  that  it  shall  be  tidy  for  her  when 
she  comes  downstairs,'  and  each  evening  I  have  not  yet 
done  it.  Now,  to-morrow  it  really  shall  be  done  !  I 
will  get  up  early  on  purpose." 

"It  is  very  kind  and  thoughtful  of  you  to  take  so 
much  trouble,"  said  the  old  lady  earnestly.  "I  do  not 
think  there  are  many  girls  of  your  age  who  would  be  so 
interested  in  giving  pleasure  to  elderly  people  as  you 
are.  I  am  very  grateful  to  you,  my  dear,"  she  added, 
laying  a  kind  hand  on  the  girl's  arm. 

"I  like  to  do  things  for  you  and  Miss  Margaret,"  she 
said  a  little  shyly.  "I  should  be  so  glad  if  you  would 
tell  me  if  there  is  anything  you  would  prefer  me  to  do 
differently." 

"There  is  nothing,"  replied  Miss  Anne  quickly. 
"  You  have  done  everything  for  us  since  you  came,  and 
made  us  so  very  comfortable.  I  thought  we  should 
never  cease  to  miss  our  old  Marie,  but  really  I  cannot 
say  that  I  miss  her  at  all — in  fact,  I  think  I  was  always 
a  tiny  bit  afraid  of  Marie,  she  was  so — very  fond  of  her 
own  way,"  said  the  old  lady  pensively.  "I  do  not  mean 
for  a  moment  that  she  was  not  generally  perfectly  right, 
but  sometimes  it  is  pleasanter  to  have  one's  own  wishes 
carried  out,  even  if  they  are  not — quite — perfect." 

Barbara  smiled  at  Miss  Anne's  way  of  expressing  her- 
self. She  had  never,  of  course,  known  the  excellent 
Marie,  but  she  could  easily  imagine  the  good  French- 
woman terrorizing  the  gentle  old  lady,  for  Miss  Anne 
would  always  come  off  worst  in  any  encounter  of  wills. 

"I  am  afraid,  my  dear,"  she  continued  after  a  moment, 
"that  a  young  girl  like  you  cannot  find  our  quiet  life 
here  very  interesting,  and  it  must  be  very  different  to 
what  you  have  been  accustomed  to.  You  are  young, 
and  we  are  growing  old — I  might  almost  say  we  have 
grown  old,  and  we  live,  think  chiefly,  on  our  memories 
of  the  past  now.  Youth  looks  forward,  and  old  age 
looks  back.  We  have  not  lived  a  dull  life,  or  we  have 
never  found  it  dull.  Some  people  might  have,  things 
move  more  rapidly  now-a-days  than  they  used  to,  but  I 


VOICES   IN   THE   NIGHT  241 

think  people  are  apt  to  think  that  a  quiet  life  in  the 
country  must  needs  be  a  dull  one.  Because  a  stream 
moves  smoothly  it  does  not  mean  that  it  is  shallow,  nor 
does  it  mean  " — Miss  Anne  gave  a  sigh  as  she  spoke — 
"that  there  are  no  stones  under  the  surface.  They  are, 
perhaps  not  apparent  to  onlookers,  but  they  are  there 
all  the  same.  You  must  see  as  much  of  Mrs.  Arkwright 
as  you  can,  and  ask  those  delightful  children  of  hers  to 
come  over  whenever  it  is  possible.  I  have  always  been 
fond  of  children,  and  it  will  be  pleasant  for  you  to  have 
them  here." 

They  walked  round  the  garden,  chatting  of  this  and 
that,  and  Barbara  was  glad  to  find  that  the  sunshine  and 
the  soft  air  seemed  to  restore  Miss  Anne's  spirits  a  little, 
and  to  be  doing  her  good.  She  seemed  to  be  stronger 
and  more  herself  than  she  had  been  all  the  day,  and 
evidently  appreciated  the  girl's  efforts  to  interest  and 
amuse  her  by  pointing  out  little  things  as  they  came  to 
them. 

They  were  standing  at  last  close  to  the  porch,  their 
stroll  having  come  to  an  end,  when  a  slight  noise  at 
the  gate  made  them  turn.  A  man  was  in  the  act  of 
opening  it,  and  as  they  watched  he  pushed  the  latch  and 
walked  in.  For  a  moment  Barbara  did  not  recognize 
who  it  was.  Miss  Anne  took  one  glance  at  the 
approaching  figure,  and  then  seized  the  girl's  arm. 

"  No,  Barbara,  no  !  "  she  gasped  quickly.  "  I  am  not 
at  home.     I  am  not  at  home." 

And  then,  looking  a  second  time,  Barbara  saw  that 
their  visitor  was  Major  Vasey.  Miss  Anne's  behaviour 
was,  however,  so  unusual  that  she  thought  she  must 
have  been  feeling  suddenly  ill,  and  must  claim  first 
attention.  The  visitor  could  wait.  Supporting  her  with 
her  arm,  she  led  her  quickly  indoors. 

"Go  and  lie  down,  will  you  not.  Miss  Anne?"  she 
said,  with  some  concern.  "I  will  tell  Major  Vasey  that 
you  are  not  well  enough  to  receive  him  this  evening." 

Miss  Anne  only  nodded,  and  without  speaking  passed 
quickly  upstairs,  motioning  Barbara  aside  when  she 
would  have  accompanied  her.     Having  watched  her  to 

R 


242  A  DREAM   OF   BLUE   ROSES 

the  top  of  the  stairs,  the  girl  went  back  to  the  door,  where 
the  Major  was  standing. 

"How  different  he  looks,"  was  her  first  thought.  "I 
hardly  recognized  him." 

And  in  truth  the  quiet,  melancholy  old  gentleman 
with  the  drooping  moustache  had  strangely  altered.  His 
hat  was  set  at  a  jaunty  angle  on  the  side  of  his  head,  his 
white  moustache  curled  upwards  with  a  rakish  twist,  his 
eyes  were  bright,  and  his  whole  look  distinctly 
truculent. 

"Aw  haw  !  "  he  said,  twirling  his  moustache ;  "is  Miss 
Leigh  at  home  ?  " 

His  manner  of  speaking  was  as  strange  as  his  appear- 
ance. 

"No,  Monsieur,"  said  the  girl  quietly,  "Miss  Anne 
regrets  that  she  cannot  receive  a  visitor  to-day.  She  is 
not  very  well." 

She  looked  at  him  keenly  as  she  answered.  What  in 
the  world  was  the  matter  with  him  ? 

"Not  receive,"  he  repeated  thickly.     "But,  damme! 

she'll  see   me.     I'm  an   old  friend "   and   then   the 

Major's  utterance  was  interrupted  by  a  hiccough.  It 
was  quite  plain  and  quite  unmistakable. 

A  vision  flashed  through  Barbara's  mind,  a  vision 
of  old  Albert,  the  postman  at  home.  Had  he  not  spoken 
just  in  this  curious  way.  Yes,  and  hiccoughed  too,  if 
the  truth  must  be  told,  when  on  hot  summer  days  the 
new  brew  of  cider  had  been  too  strong  for  him ;  did  not 
then  his  underlip  hang  loosely  and  tremble,  and  his  eyes 
wander  round  in  just  this  fashion  ? 

The  Major  had  been  drinking  ! 

He  stepped  forward  now,  and  made  as  though  to  pass 
into  the  hall,  but  the  girl  barred  his  way. 

"No,  Monsieur,"  she  said  distinctly.  "It  is  impos- 
sible that  you  can  see  Miss  Anne  to-day." 

The  old  man's  eyes  roved  round  and  round,  and 
finally  fixed  themselves  on  her  face.  He  stared  at  her 
for  an  appreciable  moment,  and  then  something  in  her 
fearless  regard  must  have  reached  his  muddled  brain, 
for  he  muttered  something,  a  few  unintelligible  words, 


VOICES   IN   THE   NIGHT  248 

and  turned  away.  She  followed  him  along  the  path, 
and  then,  as  he  fumbled  with  the  latch,  she  opened  the 
gate  for  him. 

As  she  did  this  another  man  came  running  down  the 
lane,  and  stopped  short  as  he  met  the  Major.  He 
saluted,  military  fashion,  and  stood  to  one  side  to  allow 
him  to  pass. 

"Will  you  be  comin'  home  now,  Sor?"  he  asked,  in 
a  strong  Irish  brogue. 

There  was  no  answer.  Major  Vasey,  with  his  head 
bent,  walked  on  in  silence,  and,  followed  by  his  servant, 
disappeared  up  the  lane. 

Barbara  stood  watching,  with  a  lump  in  her  throat  and 
tears  welling  to  her  eyes.  So  this  was  the  mystery  ! 
Miss  Anne's  old  friend  was  a  drunkard  !  She  was  not 
inclined  to  think  it  such  an  awful  thing  that  a  man 
should  now  and  again  take  a  little  more  than  his  head 
could  stand  :  rather  was  she  inclined,  with  Petite  M^re, 
to  excuse  old  Albert's  occasional  lapses  from  perfect 
sobriety.  When  the  days  were  warm,  and  good  cider 
strong  and  plentiful — and  men  were  weak?  Tiens! 
What  was  it,  after  all  ?  But  in  this  case  it  was  different. 
It  was  the  thought  of  what  it  must  mean  to  Miss  Anne, 
dear  gentle,  timid  Miss  Anne,  that  made  it  so  tragic. 

Sober — Major  Vasey  was  a  quiet,  retiring  old  gentle- 
man, with  an  old-fashioned,  courteous  manner,  who  paid 
constant  visits  to  his  old  friend,  treated  her  with  defer- 
ential affection,  and  was  the  last  person  to  alarm  the 
most  timid  soul  on  earth.  But  drunk — he  could  not,  it 
appeared,  keep  away  from  her  neighbourhood,  but  must 
needs  come  roistering  outside  her  house  at  night,  terrify- 
ing her  beyond  bearing,  and  singing  the  very  song  of 
all  others  which  must  remind  her  of  all  she  would  prefer 
to  forget.  Every  incident  which  the  girl  had  noticed 
fitted  together  like  pieces  in  a  Chinese  puzzle  now  that 
she  had  found  the  clue.  The  voice  in  church — she  had 
not  been  mistaken,  after  all — Mr.  Poole's  inquiry,  and 
the  Major's  own  words  to  Miss  Anne,  "Better,  Nancy, 
Better?" 

Oh,  the  pity  of  it,  the  pity  of  it ! 

R  2 


244  A  DREAM   OF   BLUE   ROSES 

This  was  why,  when  the  Major  called  regularly  and 
the  nights  were  undisturbed,  Miss  Anne  went  about  the 
house  placid,  serene  and  gentle ;  but  when  the  Major 
did  not  come,  and  the  nocturnal  noises  betrayed  his 
state,  poor  Miss  Anne  grew  white  and  nervous,  starting 
at  a  sound,  and  trembling  at  the  click  of  the  wicket  gate. 

And  yet,  the  girl  reflected,  what  could  she  do  ?  If 
she  told  John  Strong  of  the  shouting  at  night,  what 
more  natural  than  that  he  should  communicate  with  the 
police,  who  were  surely  the  proper  people  to  see  that 
quiet  and  order  were  maintained — and  this  would  be 
unbearable  to  Miss  Anne.  Was  the  weakness  of  her 
old  friend  to  be  made  the  subject  of  public  inquiry  ? 
No,  a  thousand  times  no  ! 

All  she  could  do  was  to  keep  watch,  to  be  on  guard, 
and  keep  her  discovery  to  herself. 


CHAPTER    XXV 

fancy's  farm 

"  Of  all  the  bonny  buds  that  blow 
In  bright  or  cloudy  weather, 
Of  all  the  flowers  that  come  and  go, 
The  whole  twelve  moons  together, 
The  little  purple  pansy  brings, 
Thoughts  of  the  sweetest  saddest  things." 

M.  E.  Bradley. 

Barbara  did  not  see  anything  of  Major  Vasey  for 
more  than  a  fortnight  after  the  events  recorded  in  the 
previous  chapter.  To  her  great  rehef,  however,  the 
evenings  were  undisturbed,  and  httle  by  Httle  the  strained 
look  of  anxiety  faded  from  Miss  Anne's  face,  and  her 
health  improved  considerably. 

When  at  last  the  old  gentleman  called  one  afternoon, 
he  had  entirely  resumed  his  normal  demeanour.  There 
was  no  hint  of  truculence  or  swagger  in  his  manner, 
which  was  again  mild  and  subdued  to  the  point  of 
melancholy,  and  as  he  sat  under  the  apple-tree  convers- 
ing with  the  two  sisters,  it  was  hard  to  believe  that  he 
had  ever  raised  his  voice  above  its  present  monotone, 
and  almost  impossible  to  associate  him  with  a  rollicking 
serenade  sung  outside  the  house  at  an  hour  when  all 
peaceable  folk  were  in  bed  and  asleep.  Miss  Anne 
looked  much  brighter  when  she  took  leave  of  him,  and 
he  held  her  hand  for  a  moment  with  a  look  which 
seemed  to  plead  for  pardon,  and  murmured  his  usual 
"Better,  Nancy,  better  I  "  before  he  left  her  at  the  gate. 
And  as  the  days  went  by,  he  took  to  calling  with  un- 
failing regularity  on  alternate  days,  never  staying  long, 
but  just  coming  to  inquire  after  the  health  of  the  ladies, 
and  thus  assuring  them  that  all  was  well  with  him. 

The  visit  to  Fancy's  Farm  had  been  twice  arranged, 

245 


246  A   DREAM   OF   BLUE   ROSES 

and  twice  postponed ;  first,  on  account  of  some  slight 
indisposition  on  the  part  of  Patsy,  and  second,  owing 
to  a  wet  day,  but  at  last  a  half-holiday  dawned  on  which 
the  fates  seemed  propitious,  and  the  child  and  her 
brothers  arrived  at  the  "  Porch  Cottage "  soon  after 
luncheon.  The  sky  was  cloudlessly  blue,  the  weather 
perfect  for  their  expedition. 

Patsy  was,  as  usual,  in  a  state  of  happy  excitement. 

"I  came  all  the  way  sitting  on  Lance's  carrier,"  she 
cried  in  her  shrill  treble,  as  she  saw  Barbara.  "Mother 
said  I  would  fall  off,  but  I  knew  I  shouldn't.  It  was 
heavenly  I  " 

"It  may  have  been  heavenly  for  you,  Pat,"  retorted 
Lance,  mopping  his  forehead,  "but  I  assure  you,  you  are 
not  a  feather." 

"I  expect  it  is  the  cushion  that  is  heavy,"  returned  the 
child  cheerfully,  "but  it  makes  me  much  more  comfy. 
Mother  said  it  would.  I  did  so  want  to  bring  Badajos  ! 
He  is  getting  quite  used  to  being  carried  now,  but  they 
wouldn't  let  me  !  " 

"Can  you  imagine  me  spending  the  afternoon  pedal- 
ling away  like  nothing  on  earth,  with  a  squealing  pig 
up  behind?"  said  Lance  indignantly. 

"He  wouldn't  have  squealed,"  replied  his  sister,  "and 
I  know  he  would  have  been  so  pleased  to  see  his  old 
home,  and  Mr.  Strong  would  have  liked  to  see  how  much 
he  has  grown." 

"Be  content,  my  child,"  answered  Lance  loftily. 
"And  be  grateful,  or  I  shall  be  forced  to  ask  you  what 
is  heavier  than  one  fat  pig  on  the  back  of  a  bicycle  ?  " 

"That  isn't  the  riddle!  It's  under  a  gate,  and  I'm 
not  very  particularly  heavy  !  " 

"I  don't  know  so  much  about  that !  " 

"I'll  take  her  for  a  bit,  Lance,"  said  Tony,  "if  you're 
tired.  We  are  past  the  worst  part  of  the  road  now,  and 
there  are  no  more  hills." 

"Oh,  she's  all  right.  I  don't  mind  her  really,  only 
I  do  strike  at  Badajos," 

"Oh,  there's  Sammle  !  "  cried  Patsy.  "I  must  run 
and  speak  to  Sammle." 


FANCY'S   FARM  247 

Sammle  Dodge  was  engaged  in  planting  young  cab- 
bages, and  he  straightened  himself  slowly  at  her 
approach. 

"How  do  you  do,  Sammle?"  said  Patsy  politely. 

"  Well'um,"  he  replied,  "I  do  finely,  and  I  trust  you're 
the  same." 

"  What  are  you  doing  ?  " 

"Well'um,  I  be  a  dibbling  of  these  young  greens." 

"You  are  doing  it  very  nicely,"  remarked  the  child 
patronizingly. 

"Well'um,  I  don't  say  but  what  I  make  quite  a  half 
tidy  job  of  it.  'Tain't  so  much  the  stooping  to  do  it, 
as  is  the  trouble,  it's  the  unstooping  of  myself  when  I 
comes  to  the  end  of  the  row.  That  comes  a  bit  difficult, 
that  do  !  But  I  ain't  got  no  cause  to  complain — that  is, 
not  so  much  as  some  !  " 

"Sammle,"  Patsy  spoke  confidentially,  "I  would  love 
to  dibble.     Don't  you  think  I  could  do  it?" 

"Well'um,  I  don't  say  as  you  couldn't.  You  wouldn't 
have  so  far  to  stoop,  for  one  thing,"  he  chuckled  softly. 
"But  then,  on  the  other  hand,  that  ain't  so  easy  as  it 
looks.  That  takes  a  bit  of  practice,  that  do,  for  to  set 
the  plants  just  so.  I  likes  to  see  them  coming  up  all 
ship-shape  and  Bristol  fashion,  as  the  saying  is.  Gives 
a  better  look  to  a  garden,  that  do,  than  if  things  come 
up  all  just  nohow  and  crooked  as  a  dog's  hind  leg  !  " 

"I  am  sure  I  could  dibble  them  quite  straight,"  she 
asserted  positively.  "I  would  make  a  little  hole  and 
pop  them  in,  just  like  you  do  !  " 

"Well'um,  you  might,  and  then  again  you  mightn't. 
There's  another  thing,"  continued  Sammle  reflectively, 
without  pausing  in  his  occupation,  "and  that's  the  way 
you  sets  a  plant  in.  That  has  to  be  set  just  so,  that 
has.  If  you  sets  it  too  low,  that  don't  do,  and  if  you 
sets  it  too  high,  that  don't  do  neither,  so  there  you  are  I 
That's  the  worst  of  setting  out  to  do  a  thing.  It  must 
be  done  just  so,  or  it  isn't  no  manner  of  use.  'Tis  the 
case  with  other  things  than  the  dibbling  of  young 
cabbages  I  " 

This  illuminating  dissertation  on  the  importance  of 


248  A  DREAM   OF   BLUE   ROSES 

method  was  beyond  Patsy's  comprehension,  so  she  took 
leave  of  the  worthy  Sammle,  and  trotted  back  to  find  the 
others  just  preparing  to  depart.  A  few  minutes  later 
she  was  hoisted  on  to  her  perch,  and  the  little  party  rode 
away  down  the  lane  and  across  the  Green. 

It  took  them  little  more  than  half-an-hour  to  reach 
Fancy's  Farm,  a  comfortable,  old-fashioned  house, 
standing  in  a  pretty  garden  with  a  cluster  of  barns  and 
ricks  behind  it.  John  Strong  was  at  the  gate,  evidently 
awaiting  their  arrival,  and  he  welcomed  them  heartily. 

"Come  right  in  and  see  the  mother,"  he  said  cheerily. 
"You've  had  a  long  ride,  and  you  must  rest  and  get 
cool  before  you  go  round  the  place." 

He  led  them  up  a  path  bordered  on  either  side  with 
gay  flowers.  Tall  lupins  and  Canterbury  bells,  and 
old-fashioned,  sweet-smelling  clove  pinks,  and  rich 
purple  pansies.  The  porch  over  the  front  door  was 
wreathed  with  a  Banksia  rose,  just  now  in  full  bloom, 
its  long  sprays  clothed  in  clusters  of  delicate  blossom. 

"Mother  is  proud  of  her  roses,"  he  said,  in  reply  to 
Barbara's  words  of  admiration.  "She  sets  great  store 
by  her  flowers.  Mother !  "  he  called,  as  they  entered, 
and  in  response  to  his  call  Mrs.  Strong  came  out  of  an 
inner  room  to  meet  them. 

She  was  a  comely  woman,  with  a  pleasant,  cheerful 
face,  and  Barbara  noticed  at  once  the  great  likeness 
which  existed  between  mother  and  son. 

"I  am  very  glad  to  see  you,"  she  said  heartily.  "My 
son  has  told  me  so  much  about  you.  You  are  welcome 
to  Fancy's.  I  have  no  doubt  but  what  we  can  find 
plenty  to  amuse  you  for  the  afternoon." 

"  Let  them  sit  down  and  rest  first,  Mother.  Then  the 
boys  can  go  with  Coles,  who  is  waiting  with  the  ferrets. 
I  expect  that  is  what  you'd  like  best,  wouldn't  you? 
You'll  find  there  are  plenty  of  rabbits  along  the  hedges 
of  the  home  pasture." 

The  boys'  eyes  gleamed  in  anticipation  of  the  treat, 
as  they  assured  him  they  would  enjoy  it  more  than 
anything. 

"You  can  take  the  terriers  with  you,  and  set  them  on 


FANCY'S   FARM  249 

to  the  rats  in  the  rick-yard,  when  you  get  tired  of  the 
rabbits,"  he  continued.  "Miss  Vincent  would  lilie  to  see 
your  dairy,  mother.  She  has  lived  in  France,  and  she 
will  be  interested  to  see  how  differently  we  do  things 
over  here.  I'm  not  saying  we  do  them  better,"  he 
turned  to  Barbara,  with  a  smile,  "but  every  country  has 
different  ways,  I  suppose." 

"And  what  would  the  little  one  like  to  do?  " 

"The  little  pigs!"  murmured  Patsy  ecstatically. 
"Oh,  I  would  love  to  see  the  little  pigs!  " 

"Why,  so  you  shall.  I  can  show  you  plenty  of  them. 
Wait  a  minute  or  two,  until  your  brothers  have  started, 
and  then  you  and  I  will  pay  them  a  visit.  There  are 
some  young  calves,  too.  Oh,  I  can  show  you  no  end 
of  little  animals." 

"  It  will  be  heavenly  !  "  Patsy  made  her  usual  remark 
with  her  hands  clasped  in  the  extremity  of  her  joy. 

Barbara  found  herself  alone  with  Mrs.  Strong 
presently,  and  they  sat  and  chatted  for  a  while  before 
starting  on  their  tour  of  inspection. 

"My  son  tells  me  you  have  not  been  long  in  England," 
said  the  older  woman  kindly.  "I  expect  you  find  some 
of  our  ways  rather  strange." 

"A  few,"  answered  the  girl,  smiling.  "It  seems 
curious  that  I  know  so  little  of  my  own  country,  but 
already  I  am  learning  to  love  it.  Of  course,  I  have  not 
seen  other  parts  of  England,  but  it  is  very  beautiful 
round  here." 

"Yes,  you  may  go  a  long  way  before  you  find  such 
pretty  country  as  there  is  round  St.  Ethel's.  I  am  a 
Devonshire  woman  myself,  and  when  I  first  married  and 
came  to  live  here,  I  couldn't  get  used  to  it.  I  had  been 
accustomed  to  steep  hills  and  a  wilder  land,  and  this 
seemed  flat  and  tame  in  comparison,  but  I  came  to  love 
it  dearly.  To  love  the  wide  fields  and  the  green 
meadows  by  the  river  side.  It  is  a  homely  land  to 
live  in,  and  the  peace  of  it  grows  to  be  a  part  of  your 
life." 

"Your  flowers  are  so  lovely.  We  do  not  have  such 
gardens  in   France.     Every  piece  of  the  land  at  home 


250  A  DREAM   OF   BLUE   ROSES 

is  cultivated,  but  I  think  the  people  do  not  care  to 
grow  things  for  beauty,  they  must  all  be  for  use  and 
profit." 

"I'm  all  on  the  side  of  use  and  profit  myself,"  said 
Mrs.  Strong,  with  a  twinkle  in  her  eyes.  "But  I 
couldn't  get  on  without  my  flowers.  They  are  a 
wonderful  help,  and  teach  us  how  a  bit  of  brightness 
makes  the  world  a  different  place.  We  are  but  a  small 
party  here  now-a-days,  with  one  of  my  sons  away  across 
the  water,  and  another  married.  This  house  is  big  for 
just  John  and  me,  and  it  seems  silent  too,  sometimes, 
but  there's  always  plenty  to  be  done,  always  plenty  to 
keep  me  busy,  and  that's  what  makes  a  woman's  happi- 
ness. I'm  thankful  that  one  of  my  boys  is  still  in  the 
old  place.  John  is  just  like  his  father,  he  loves  every 
stick  and  stone  of  it." 

"I'm  sure  I  don't  wonder  at  it.  It  is  such  a  charming 
house.  I  am  so  glad  to  come  and  see  it,  for  your  son 
has  told  me  so  much  about  it." 

"Well,  come  along  and  have  a  look  round,  if  you 
would  like  to.  I  must  show  you  my  dairy  first.  John 
would  laugh  !  He  always  says  I  set  more  store  by  my 
dairy  than  by  all  the  rest  of  the  house.  And  I  think 
it  is  true.  He  wants  me  to  let  others  attend  to  it  now 
that  I  am  growing  older,  but  I'm  never  one  to  sit  with 
my  hands  folded  in  my  lap."  She  led  the  way  along 
paved  stone  passages,  and  opening  a  door,  preceded 
Babara  down  a  few  shallow  steps.  "  Here  is  my 
particular  kingdom,"  she  said  cheerfully.  "This  is  the 
room  where  we  do  all  the  packing  for  market,  and  hang- 
ing on  the  walls  you  will  see  all  the  prize  cards  Fancy's 
won.  They  make  a  good  show,  don't  they?  You  see 
that  one  over  there?  That  was  the  first  of  all.  It  was 
the  year  after  I  married,  thirty-two  years  ago.  I 
remember  it  well.  It  was  for  a  basket  of  roses  made  out 
of  butter.  They  used  to  make  them  at  home,  and  they 
hadn't  been  seen  in  these  parts  before,  and  people  were 
so  excited  about  them.  And  when  we  came  home  from 
the  show,  my  husband  drove  that  nail  into  the  wall  and 
hung  the  card  up  just  where  it  hangs  now.     He  was 


FANCY'S   FARM  251 

so  delighted  to  think  I  had  won  it.  And  every  year 
since  then,  more  have  been  added  to  the  number,  until 
the  wall  is  nearly  covered,  as  you  see  it  now. 

"Here  is  the  dairy  beyond.  Beautifully  cool?  Why, 
yes !  I  am  sure  it  is.  Next  time  you  should  come  on 
a  Tuesday,  or  a  Friday,  those  are  our  busy  days.  But 
you'd  have  to  come  early,  for  we  start  at  half-past  four 
at  this  time  of  year.  I  like  to  get  it  all  done  before  the 
sun  gets  up.  I  have  two  maids  to  help  me,  but  for  all 
John  says,  I  wouldn't  let  them  do  it  without  me.  Now, 
if  we  go  out  this  way,  we  shall  find  ourselves  in  the 
yard.  The  cows  are  all  in  the  meadow,  but  they  will 
be  coming  up  presently  for  the  milking.  The  little  girl 
will  like  to  see  that  after  she  has  had  her  tea." 

"How  is  Frolic?  "  asked  the  girl,  after  a  while. 

"Frolic  is  very  well,"  replied  Mrs.  Strong,  "I  had 
forgotten  that  you  knew  her.  She  is  a  pretty  beast. 
We  had  her  mother  too,  but  she  died  last  year.  Gaylass 
was  her  name,  and  my  husband  always  drove  her  into 
market  to  St.  Ethel's  every  Saturday.  It  was  a  real 
grief  when  we  lost  her,  but  Frolic  is  just  the  picture  of 
her." 

"  Frolic  is  a  name  that  just  suits  her." 

"Aye,  that  is  true.  But  she  is  easier  to  drive  than 
she  used  to  be.  She  is  gaining  sense  as  she  grows  older, 
like  most  of  us.  I  don't  rhink  we  ever  had  a  young  one 
more  difficult  to  break.  But  John  has  wonderful 
patience,  and  you  need  a  lot  of  patience  with  young 
things,  if  you're  going  to  teach  them  without  breaking 
their  spirits.  John  always  has  a  way  with  him  with 
young  things,  they  soon  get  to  know  him  and  love  him. 
I'm  a  proud  woman.  Miss  Vincent;  don't  you  think  I 
ought  to  be,  with  three  fine  sons  ?  I  love  them  all  dearly, 
but  if  there  is  one  that  is  the  particular  joy  of  my  life, 
it  is  John,  No  mother  ever  had  a  better  son.  Perhaps 
I  ought  to  add,  '  though  I  say  it  as  shouldn't,'  but  I 
never  can  see  why  a  mother  shouldn't  think  her  own 
better  than  others.  It  stands  to  reason  that  she  should, 
after  all,  doesn't  it?  and  one  may  as  well  be  honest 
over  it." 


252  A  DREAM  OF  BLUE  ROSES 

"I  do  not  wonder  that  you  are  proud,"  said  Barbara 
softly. 

"Proud  I  am,  and  thankful.  A  good  son  he  has 
always  been,  and  he  will  make  a  good  husband  when  the 
time  comes,  as  please  God  it  will  come  soon."  Mrs. 
Strong  glanced  keenly  at  the  girl  as  she  spoke,  but 
Barbara  was  occupied  in  stroking  the  smooth  nose  of  a 
young  calf,  which  had  pushed  its  head  through  the  rails 
of  the  pen  in  friendly  fashion,  and  she  did  not  notice 
the  attention  with  which  Mrs.  Strong  was  regarding 
her.  "He  is  very  thoughtful  for  others,  too,"  continued 
the  woman.  "It  was  always  his  way  from  a  child,  and 
it  is  the  little  kindly  thoughts  and  services  from  their 
own  that  make  the  joy  of  life  for  a  wife  and  a  mother. 
He  can  be  masterful,  too,  which  is  a  thing  I  like  to  see, 
for  a  man  should  be  master  in  his  own  home.  He  is 
worth  nothing  unless  he  knows  his  own  mind,  and  speaks 
it  when  necessary.  But  there  !  "  Mrs.  Strong  changed 
her  tone  to  a  lighter  key.  "  I  don't  know  what  you  think 
of  it,  but  I  cannot  agree  with  all  this  modern  talk  about 
men  and  women  having  equal  rights,  and  women  being 
fit  to  do  a  man's  work  in  the  world.  A  man  comes  first 
— he  always  has,  and  he  always  will,  but  he'll  never 
get  far  unless  he  has  a  woman  beside  him  to  help  him 
to  make  the  very  best  of  himself.  There  are  plenty  of 
things  a  woman  can  do  better  than  a  man,  but  they  are 
not  the  big  fighting  things  of  life.  They  are  the  little 
things  which  perhaps  don't  seem  so  very  important 
while  they  are  being  done,  but  they  hold  all  the  big 
things  together,  and  when  women  give  up  doing  their 
own  particular  work  that  God  meant  them  to  do,  and 
take  on  doing  a  man's  job  badly,  they'll  find  they've 
lost  their  rights  instead  of  gained  them. 

"But,"  she  added,  laughing,  "whatever  am  I  doing 
talking  like  this,  when  I  started  out  to  show  you  round 
Fancy's?  It's  a  good  thing  John  isn't  here.  I  should 
get  a  scolding  I  " 

They  wandered  all  round  through  the  big,  dim  hay 
barns,  and  through  the  poultry  yard,  where  Mrs.  Strong 
gave  an  interested  listener  much  good  advice  on  correct 


FANCY'S   FARM  258 

management — into  the  stables,  where  FroHc  whinnied 
plaintively  at  their  approach,  and  was  comforted  with 
carrots  and  sugar,  down  to  the  pond  in  the  orchard, 
where  the  ducks  and  geese  were  taking  their  afternoon 
siesta  on  the  shady  grass  bank,  and  at  last  turned  back 
towards  the  house. 

Here  they  found  Patsy  and  John  Strong  seated  in  the 
porch  awaiting  them. 

"We  was  just  resting,"  explained  the  child.  "We 
got  so  hot  hunting  for  eggs.  We  found  twenty-seven, 
and  some  of  the  hens  got  so  excited  you  should  have 
heard  the  noise  they  made.  And  the  little  pfgs  were 
lovely,  only  I  don't  think  there  was  one  which  was  as 
beautiful  as  Badajos." 

"I  am  glad  you  have  enjoyed  your  afternoon,  dearie," 
said  Mrs.  Strong  heartily.  "You  will  be  ready  for  your 
tea.     Miss  Vincent  and  I  have  had  a  nice  walk,  too." 

"And  has  Mother  been  explaining  to  you  that  if  you 
search  the  whole  world  over,  you  couldn't  find  another 
farm  so  well  managed  as  Fancy's,  or  a  dairy  that  takes 
so  many  prizes,  or  hens  that  lay  so  many  eggs  ? " 
inquired  John,  laughing. 

He  laid  his  hand  on  his  mother's  shoulder  with  a 
gesture  of  affection  as  he  spoke. 

"I  don't  think  Mrs.  Strong  said  so,  but  I  am  sure  it 
is  true,"  retorted  Barbara. 

"He  must  have  a  laugh  at  his  old  mother,"  said  Mrs. 
Strong.     "Have  done  now,  and  come  in  to  tea." 

"Where  is  the  eldest  brother?  Why  didn't  he 
come?"  asked  John. 

"He  has  been  away,"  explained  Patsy.  "But  he  is 
coming  home  very  soon." 

"Well,  you  must  bring  him  with  you  next  time." 

They  walked  into  the  long,  low  parlour  where  tea  was 
spread,  a  real  Devonshire  tea,  as  Mrs.  Strong  explained, 
with  bowls  of  clotted  cream,  and  hot  scones,  and  honey 
and  preserves,  and  after  a  few  minutes  the  boys  came 
in,  full  of  glee  at  the  success  of  their  afternoon's 
amusement. 

"Fm  glad  you  enjoyed  it  so  much,  you  must  come 


254  A  DREAM  OF  BLUE  ROSES 

down  here  any  afternoon  you  can  get  free.  There  is 
always  something  doing  on  a  farm." 

"I  should  Hke  to  come  and  fish  one  day,  if  I  may," 
said  Tony. 

"Of  course  you  may,  any  time  you  Hke.  There  are 
plenty  of  trout  in  the  mill  pool,  and  I  can  fit  you  out 
with  rods  and  flies." 

The  lad  confessed  that  he  had  never  tried  fly-fishing, 
and  John  Strong  promised  to  give  him  a  lesson  in  the 
art. 

"You've  picked  up  a  good  appetite  for  your  tea," 
said  Mrs.  Strong,  "and  I'm  delighted  to  see  it.  If  there 
is  one  thing  I  like  to  see,  it  is  young  people  who  know- 
how  to  do  justice  to  a  meal.  Take  another  scone  now, 
and  a  little  more  cream." 

Her  motherly  heart  rejoiced  at  the  way  in  which  the 
good  things  of  her  providing  disappeared  before  the 
onslaught  of  the  boys.  "  It  reminds  me  of  the  days  when 
my  own  were  young,"  she  said. 

"I  don't  think  you've  much  to  complain  of  with  us 
now.  Mother,"  said  John. 

"  Not  much,"  she  agreed  cheerfully.  "  Who  is  coming 
to  see  the  milking  ?  " 

Patsy  and  the  boys  expressed  their  desire  to  accom- 
pany her,  and  Barbara  and  her  host  walked  out  into  the 
garden. 

"I'm  afraid  you  must  be  tired,"  he  said,  "after 
strolling  round  all  the  afternoon  on  the  top  of  a  hot 
ride  over  here." 

"No,  I  am  not  tired,"  replied  Barbara,  "it  has  been 
delightful." 

"\Vell,"  he  said,  after  a  moment  of  silence,  "what  do 
you  think  of  it  all  ?  " 

"I  think  it  is  a  most  charming  place,  and  I  do  not 
wonder  that  you  love  it." 

"  How  did  you  and  the  mother  get  on  ?  " 

"Very  well  indeed.  She  was  most  dear  and  kind  to 
me.  I  think  she  is  wonderful.  She  seems  to  know 
everything  about  the  farm." 

He  nodded. 


FANCY'S   FARM  .255 

"Yes,  she's  a  wonderful  woman,  my  mother.     And 
what  she  doesn't  know  about  the  work  of  the  place,  you 
may  say  isn't  worth  knowing.     So  you  like  Fancy's?" 
"Indeed,  I  do.     Immensely!" 
"You  think  it  would  be  a  happy  home?" 
"I   am  certain   it   is  a  happy   home,"   said   Barbara, 
wondering  a  little  at  his  tone. 

"I  did  so  hope  you  would  like  it,*'  he  continued 
earnestly.  "Of  course,  we  are  plain  folks,  you  know 
that,  but  life  can  be  very  happy  for  plain  folk.  Happier 
than  for  some  in  greater  positions,  I  think." 

It  crossed  Barbara's  mind  that  this  young  man  had 
more  than  once  seemed  anxious  lest  she  should  be  under 
any  misapprehension  as  to  his  social  position.  In 
England,  it  appeared,  people  thought  a  good  deal  of 
this.  It  was  something  new  to  her.  It  had  never 
entered  into  her  life  before.  At  the  Pavilion  they  had 
seen  little  society,  and  their  friends  had  been  either  of 
the  respectable  commercial  class,  like  Monsieur  and 
Madame  Menoux,  or  of  a  humbler  sphere  in  life,  worthy 
peasant  folk  who  were  friends  because  some  particular 
nobility  of  mind  raised  them  above  their  fellows,  friends 
of  the  heart,  they  might  be  called — the  old  charcoal 
burner,  for  instance — who  would  chat  freely  and  even 
advise  them  on  their  private  affairs,  but  who  would  never 
have  dreamed  of  entering  the  Pavilion  unless  he  had  left 
his  sabots  on  the  doorstep,  and  held  his  cap  in  his  hand. 
In  the  earlier  days  at  Le  Petit  Andely,  they  had  had 
friends,  worthy  cronies,  who  came  in  of  an  evening  to 
discuss  the  affairs  of  the  nation  with  P^re  Joseph, 
Monsieur  Crouet,  the  village  notary,  and  Monsieur 
Vernet,  the  apothecary,  and  P^re  Gervais,  the  priest, 
excellent  men  and  good  citizens,  but  as  she  realized  full 
well,  in  no  way  the  social  equals  of  Dick  and  Molly  Ark- 
wright,  or  the  ladies  at  the  "Porch  Cottage,"  or  indeed 
of  the  young  man  who  stood  beside  her.  She  could 
imagine  Stephen  Grant  drinking  a  cup  of  coffee  and 
exchanging  political  views  with  Monsieur  Vernet  and 
Monsieur  Crouet  in  Le  Petit  Andely.  Stephen  Grant 
was  too  true  a  gentleman,  and  too  kind  of  heart  to  fail 


256  A  DREAM   OF   BLUE   ROSES 

in  courtesy  wherever  he  might  find  himself,  but  these 
people  she  had  known  did  not  belong  to  his  particular 
rung  of  the  ladder.  He  might  be  with  them,  but  he 
would  never  be  of  them.  This  had  been  quite  clear  to 
her  on  the  day  when  he  had  quite  politely,  but  quite 
firmly  shown  Jean  Paul  Laurent  to  the  gate  of  the  "  Porch 
Cottage."  But  then,  Jean  Paul  was  a  worm,  and  an 
odious  worm.  It  would  never  have  been  necessary  to 
show  Monsieur  Menoux  to  the  gate,  for  instance,  for 
Monsieur  Menoux  had  too  much  natural  good  breeding 
to  intrude  himself  where  his  presence  was  not  desired. 
Also,  his  personality  was  so  charming  that  he  would 
have  been  welcome  wherever  he  came.  Molly  would 
delight  in  Monsieur  Menoux,  with  his  twinkling  eyes 
and  never-failing  cheerfulness  and  kindness. 

John  Strong  was  so  frank,  and  pleasant,  and  kind,  that 
she  was  beginning  to  count  him  as  a  friend,  but,  after 
all,  his  exact  social  position,  as  it  counted  in  this  country, 
had  nothing  to  do  with  her,  and  there  was  no  reason 
why  he  should  wish  to  make  it  clear  to  her. 

They  were  standing  leaning  against  the  gate  at  the 
end  of  the  garden  path.  The  sun  was  low  upon  the 
horizon,  and  a  clump  of  chestnut  trees  in  the  home 
meadow  before  them  threw  long,  cool  shade  across  the 
green  grass.  From  the  cote  in  the  farmyard  came  the 
cooing  of  the  pigeons,  a  soothing,  slumbery  sound. 
Small  wonder,  she  thought  again,  that  Mrs.  Strong  and 
her  son  should  think  Fancy's  a  heaven  on  earth.  It 
was  a  real  home  of  peace  and  unpretentious  comfort. 

Her  eyes  wandered  over  the  quiet  homestead,  and 
fell  at  last  upon  a  large  patch  of  pansies  which  were 
blooming  in  the  border  close  beside  the  gate — a  sea  of 
velvet  softness,  pale  mauve,  rich  gold  and  glowing 
purple. 

"  How  beautiful !  "  she  said,  almost  involuntarily. 

John  Strong  had  been  standing  with  his  back  to  the 
gate,  watching  her,  and  his  glance  had  followed  hers. 
At  her  words  he  stooped  and  gathered  a  single  glowing 
purple  flower,  then  stepping  closer  to  her,  he  held  it  out. 

"Do  you  know  what  the  country  people  round  here 


FANCY'S   FARM  257 

call  it?"  he  said,  speaicing  very  gently.  "They  call  it 
'  Kiss-me-John-at-the-garden-gate.'     Will  you  take  it?" 

Barbara,  who  had  put  out  her  hand,  looked  up  into 
his  face.  It  had  gone  quite  white  under  the  tan,  and 
his  eyes  were  seeking  hers.  Half  startled,  she  withdrew 
a  step,  and  her  hand  fell  to  her  side. 

"Won't  you  take  it?"  he  asked  huskily. 

Barbara  did  not  speak.  She  hardly  knew  what  to  say. 
His  undoubted  earnestness  gave  a  deeper  meaning  to  the 
simple  offering  than  appeared  necessary. 

"I  wish  you  would,"  he  said.  "I  can't  find  words 
to  tell  you  what  I  want  to  say,  but  will  you  take  it,  and 
my  heart  with  it,  for  it  is  all  yours.  Barbara!  I  don't 
know  that  I  have  any  right  to  ask  you.  You  are  far 
above  me,  but  if  you  will  be  my  wife,  1  think  I  can  make 
you  happy,  for  I  love  you  most  truly." 

Barbara  gave  a  little  gasp  of  surprise  and 
consternation. 

"Take  it,"  he  urged,  with  a  note  of  passionate  entreaty 
in  his  voice.     "I  love  you,  I  would  be  so  good  to  you." 

"Thank  you,"  she  faltered.  "I  thank  you  with  all  my 
heart,  but  I  cannot  take  it." 

She  did  not  look  at  him  as  she  spoke,  but  she  heard 
him  draw  a  quick  breath. 

"  I  do  not  love  you,"  she  said  very  low,  but  quite 
distinctly,  "and — I  like  you  too  well  to  take  it." 

"Would  not  your  liking  be  enough?" 

She  shook  her  head,  then  raising  it,  she  met  the  man's 
ardent,  beseeching  gaze  without  flinching.  "  I  am  sorry," 
she  said  pitifully,  "so  truly  sorry  !  " 

For  awhile  he  looked  at  her,  then  he  drew  himself  up 
with  a  movement  which  was  at  once  manly  and 
appealing. 

"You  are  right,"  he  said  simply,  "it  would  not  be 
enough.  Don't  look  like  that !  Don't  look  sad  for  me." 
He  took  her  hand  and  wrung  it  in  a  quick  grasp,  then 
released  it.  "I  hear  the  others  coming.  Shall  we  go 
and  meet  them  ?  " 

As  they  rode  home  soon  after,  the  boys  and  Patsy 
were  full  of  gay  chatter,  but  for  once  Barbara  paid  no 
s 


258  A  DREAM   OF   BLUE   ROSES 

heed  to  them.  She  was  thinking  of  John  Strong,  and 
wishing  with  all  her  heart  that  her  answer  could  have 
been  a  different  one.  His  mother  had  only  spoken  the 
truth  when  she  had  said  that  he  would  make  a  good 
husband,  and  the  girl  told  herself  she  could  envy  the 
woman  who  was  his  wife.  How  he  would  cherish  and 
care  for  her.  But  for  her  it  was  impossible.  He  offered 
his  best,  and  he  should  have  a  woman's  best  in  return, 
and  this,  much  as  she  would  have  liked  to,  she  simply 
could  not  give.  Of  love  she  knew  little — it  had  not  as 
yet  entered  into  her  life,  but  of  one  thing  she  was  certain, 
it  meant  something  infinitely  more  than  the  warm 
friendly  liking  she  felt  for  this  man.  Would  it  ever 
come  to  her,  this  wonderful  love  of  which  she  had  heard 
and  read  ?  Perhaps  yes,  perhaps  no,  but  she  had  learned 
something  of  its  power  from  the  words  and  intonation 
of  John  Strong,  and  it  was  just  this  dawning  realization 
of  what  it  should  mean  that  had  made  her  so  sure  that 
liking  was  not  enough.  Had  he  loved  her  less,  and  had 
she  liked  him  less,  she  might  have  married  him,  but  she 
liked  him  too  well  to  offer  him  anything  but  the  gold  he 
himself  wished  to  shower  on  her.  But  she  sighed  at  the 
thought  of  all  she  had  missed. 

Truly,  as  P^re  Joseph  had  said,  "  It  was  not  easy,  this 
life."  Why  was  one  in  this  life  obliged  to  cause  pain 
to  those  one  would  most  willingly  have  spared  it? 
Which  is  a  question  to  which  older  and  wiser  people 
than  Barbara  have  been  unable  to  find  an  answer. 


CHAPTER    XXVI    . 

THE   PARTY 

"Summer  glow,  licth  low 
Upon  heath,  field,  wood,  and  grass 
Here  and  there,  in  the  glare 
White,  red,  gold,  peeps  from  the  place. 
Full  of  joy,  laughs  the  sky, 
Laughs  what  on  the  earth  doth  rove." 

The  Minnesinger. 

"Ma  bien  Aimee  (so  wrote  Petite  M^re) — 

"Thy  letter  did  but  make  a  certainty  of  that  which 
I  have  feared  in  my  heart  this  long  while.  There  is  a 
silence  which  speaks  more  clearly  than  words,  and  since 
in  thy  previous  letters  thou  didst  not  mention  thy  for- 
tune, I  felt  it  could  but  mean  that  success  had  not 
attended  thy  search.  Thou  knowest,  ma  petite,  how  I 
share  thy  disappointment,  but  I  fully  agree  that  no  good 
purpose  can  be  served  by  attempting  to  find  out  the 
secret  which  the  years  have  hidden  from  us.  Doubtless, 
had  our  dear  one  been  still  with  us,  his  wisdom  would 
have  perceived  some  course  of  action  to  be  taken ;  but 
since  he  is  with  the  good  God,  and  we  are  but  two 
women  with  little  knowledge  of  the  world,  and  no  man 
to  guide  us,  we  can  do  no  more.  Also,  for  another 
reason  the  matter  must  be  dropped,  for,  as  thou  sayest, 
it  would  be  an  affair  of  great  expense,  and  we  are  not  of 
the  world's  rich  ones,  thou  and  I  !  For  the  rest — there 
is  that  in  thy  letter  which  has  greatly  cheered  my  heart. 
What  matter  the  dreams  which  were  vain,  since  all  is 
well  with  thee,  and  thou  art  happy  and  secure  with  thy 
new  friends?  It  is  pleasant  to  dream — at  times;  but 
dreams  seldom  come  true  in  the  way  we  anticipate.  We 
had  hoped  to  go  and  find  the  fairies,  thou  and  I,  beloved, 
s  2  259 


260  A  DREAM   OF   BLUE   ROSES 

and  that  is  not  to  be  !  Bien  ! — who  is  to  say  they  will 
not  come  and  find  us  instead  ? 

"  For  me,  I  am  an  old  woman ;  to  be  with  thee  would 
be  great  happiness  for  me,  but  for  the  aged  their  own 
hearthstone  is  the  most  suitable  place,  when  all  is  said, 
and  here  I  will  wait  patiently  until  the  day  when  thou 
canst  tell  me  that  the  good  little  people  have  found  thee 
where  thou  art,  and  on  that  day  1  shall  see  them  through 
thine  eyes.    It  will  assuredly  come  ! 

"To  comfort  thy  loving  anxiety  for  me,  I  must  tell 
thee  that  the  arrangement  with  '  ma  niece  '  answers  well. 
She  is  all  that  there  is  of  the  most  amiable  to  live  with, 
making  no  trouble,  and  the  child  is  well  mannered  and 
obedient.  That  she  is  also  inconceivably  stupid  matters 
not  at  all !  She  has  a  generous  heart,  and  her  presence 
here  eases  the  wheels  of  the  household.  It  is  not  neces- 
sary for  me  now  to  consider  with  torment  of  soul  the 
spending  of  every  sou.  This  is  indeed  a  matter  for 
thankfulness,  for  while,  as  thou  knowest,  I  have  never 
desired  wealth,  there  is  comfort  in  a  modest  competence. 
It  smooths  the  road  and  makes  for  godly  living. 

"In  answer  to  thy  question,  the  two  eggs,  well  beaten, 
should  be  added  after  the  flour  and  butter  are  thoroughly 
mixed — be  sure  of  this,  or  the  result  will  not  be  satis- 
factory. 

"I  grieve  to  tell  thee  that  Cleopatre  had  un  crise  de 
nerfs  effrayant  last  Tuesday,  and  all  of  account  of  so 
small  a  thing  as  Maitre  Herve's  spotted  cow,  which  did 
but  recline  ruminating  upon  the  roadside.  For  seven- 
and-twenty  minutes  did  I  wrestle  with  her,  feeling  as 
Balaam  must  have  felt  long  ago,  but  on  this  occasion  it 
was  no  angel  that  barred  our  path,  but  most  assuredly 
the  devil !  Enfin,  the  mood  passed,  and  we  arrived  home 
safely,  but  late  for  supper;  and  since  these  attacks  occur 
only  at  intervals,  we  may  now,  perhaps,  be  permitted  to 
take  our  drives  in  peace  for  some  time. 

"Of  Monsieur  Jean  Paul  Laurent  I  have  heard 
nothing,  nor  has  Madame  his  mother  honoured  me  with 
a  visit — a  matter  for  congratulation,  as  thou  wilt  agree. 
I  understand  she  is  desol^e  at  the  continued  absence  of 


THE   PARTY  261 

her  son,  who  has  snapped  the  leading-strings  with  which 
she  held  him.  Let  us  hope  that  the  vicissitudes  of 
life  in  a  great  city  like  Rouen  may  yet  make  a  man  of 
him. 

"All  thy  pets  are  well,  but  Alcibiade  grows  more 
truculent  daily.  It  appears  to  me  that  he  would  serve 
a  better  purpose  in  the  pot  than  in  his  present  position, 
and  if  thou  art  willing,  I  will  endeavour  to  replace  him 
with  a  younger  animal,  whose  character  resembles  less 
closely  that  of  Bluebeard. 

"It  rejoices  me  to  read  of  thy  doings  in  thy  new 
country.  Truly,  the  world  is  a  beautiful  place;  it  must 
be,  since  the  good  God  made  it.  Rest  assured  that  He 
has  no  objection  to  thy  loving  the  things  that  He  Him- 
self created. 

"Melanie  sends  her  love,  and  many  of  thy  humble 
acquaintance  demand  to  be  brought  to  thy  recollection. 
I  assure  them  that  La  Petite  does  not  forget. 

"And  so,  good-night,  my  beloved. 

"  Ever  thy  devoted 

"Petite  Mere." 

The  world  did  indeed  seem  to  be  a  very  happy  and 
beautiful  place  to  Barbara  at  this  time.  Everything  was 
going  smoothly  at  the  "Porch  Cottage,"  and  now  her 
mind  was  relieved  of  anxiety  with  regard  to  Petite  M^re. 
She  was  more  than  thankful  to  know  that  the  little  woman 
was  no  longer  obliged  to  "consider  with  torment  of  soul 
the  spending  of  every  sou,"  for  she  had  known  only  too 
well  how  tiny  was  the  income  on  which  the  sisters  lived, 
and  how  barely  it  supplied  them  with  the  necessities  of 
life.  Also  there  had  been  the  added  expenditure  in 
connection  with  her  journey  to  England  to  be  made  up. 
She  had  rather  dreaded  to  receive  a  reply  to  her  tidings, 
and  yet  she  should  have  known  there  was  no  reason  for 
dread,  for  when  had  Petite  M^re  failed  to  look  on  the 
bright  side  of  things,  or  failed  to  point  out  with  simple, 
pious  philosophy  the  many  benefits  for  which  she  had 
cause  to  be  grateful  ?  The  letter  was  so  characteristic 
of  the  writer !     Difficulties  and  disappointments  were 


262  A   DREAM   OF   BLUE   ROSES 

always  made  light  of — like  the  stupidity  of  "ma  niece," 
they  mattered  not  at  all. 

The  weather  had  been  perfect,  and  the  orchard  at  the 
cottage  had  been  the  scene  of  many  little  gaieties,  which, 
as  Miss  Margaret  said,  reminded  her  of  old  days. 
Stephen  Grant  and  Phil  had  returned  from  their  travels, 
and  Molly's  joy  at  the  sight  of  her  boy's  brown  and 
radiant  face  had  known  no  bounds. 

Stephen  was  again  staying  at  the  "White  Hart  "  in  St. 
Ethel's,  and  had  acquired  a  habit  of  turning  up  at  unex- 
pected moments  to  visit  his  aunts,  generally  in  company 
with  some  of  the  Arkwright  family.  He  would  join  them 
under  the  apple-tree,  while  Barbara  and  the  younger 
ones  played  childish  games,  or  made  pretence  at  serious 
work  in  the  garden.  Miss  Anne  loved  to  have  him  with 
her,  and  it  never  struck  her  to  question  why  he,  who  had 
hitherto  been  such  a  wanderer,  should  suddenly  be  con- 
tent to  spend  weeks  living  in  an  inn  in  a  small  provincial 
town.  He  seemed  perfectly  satisfied,  and  that  was 
enough  for  gentle  Miss  Anne,  who  was  never  disposed 
to  interfere  in  other  people's  affairs.  And  Stephen,  in 
the  eyes  of  Patsy  and  her  brothers,  had  become  a  sort 
of  Father  Christmas  and  fairy  godfather  rolled  into  one. 
He  was  for  ever  planning  pleasures  for  them,  and  for 
ever  ready  with  further  suggestions  for  their  enjoyment. 

"  It  is  so  easy  to  do  things  when  you  have  a  car,"  he 
would  say.  "You  had  much  better  use  it  while  you 
have  the  opportunity."  And  they  were  only  too  delighted 
to  agree  with  him. 

One  day  Miss  Anne,  to  the  great  surprise  of  every 
one,  announced  that  she  was  going  to  give  a  party.  Not 
merely  an  informal  gathering  to  which  people  could 
come  or  not  as  they  chose,  but  a  real  tea-party,  with  the 
day  fixed,  and  the  invitations  issued  beforehand,  so  that 
the  guests  should  make  no  mistake.  After  a  good  deal 
of  cogitation,  she  decided  it  should  be  upon  a  Wednes- 
day, for  that  was  the  only  day  in  the  week  on  which 
Phil  Arkwright  was  free  to  enjoy  himself,  and  Miss 
Anne  was  very  much  attached  to  Phil :  she  felt  the 
party  would  not  be  complete  without  him.    The  guests 


THE   PARTY  263 

were  not  to  be  many ;  just  Molly,  and  Dick,  and  the 
four  children,  Mr.  Poole,  Major  Vasey,  and  Stephen. 
These,  with  the  two  ladies  themselves  and  Barbara, 
would  bring  the  number  up  to  twelve;  and,  as  Miss 
Anne  wisely  remarked,  they  could  not  possibly  ask 
any  one  else,  because  the  Worcester  tea  service  had 
only  twelve  cups — an  excellent  reason  for  limiting  the 
number. 

Miss  Margaret  spent  some  days  beforehand  in  a  flutter 
of  excitement.  She  followed  Barbara  from  the  kitchen 
to  the  parlour,  and  from  the  parlour  to  the  garden,  as 
though  if  she  let  her  out  of  her  sight  for  a  moment  the 
festivity  would  never  take  place. 

"It  is  so  long  since  we  have  had  a  party,"  she  mur- 
mured over  and  over  again.  "We  used  to  have  many 
when  dear  mamma  was  alive;  very  pleasant  parties  and 
such  delightful  music.  Oh,  I  only  hope  it  will  not  rain  ! 
Barbara,  what  shall  we  do  if  it  rains  ?  " 

"Don't  let's  think  of  such  a  calamity,"  was  the  cheer- 
ful reply.  "If  it  rains  we  must  have  the  party  in  the 
kitchen,  because  it  is  the  largest  room  in  the  house." 

Miss  Margaret  raised  her  hands  in  horror. 

"Oh,  but  that  would  be  very  unsuitable,  surely.  I  do 
not  think  mamma  would  have  approved  of  our  receiving 
guests  in  the  kitchen." 

"It  would  be  unusual,  certainly,"  agreed  the  girl 
merrily;  "but  I  am  sure  it  will  not  rain,  Miss  Margaret. 
It  could  not  be  so  unkind." 

At  last  the  great  day  arrived.  Miss  Margaret  had  so 
worn  herself  out  in  gleeful  anticipation  that  she  was 
easily  persuaded  to  remain  in  her  room,  resting  until 
midday,  while  Miss  Anne  read  to  her.  Barbara  had 
been  up  betimes,  and  had  ridden  into  St.  Ethel's  to 
complete  her  purchases  early  in  the  morning,  insuring 
in  this  way  not  only  a  cool  ride,  but  also  ample  leisure 
to  complete  her  preparations.  For  the  fates  had  been 
kind,  and  the  sky  was  cloudless,  and  the  summer  sun 
blazed  overhead  as  the  morning  wore  on  with  a  warmth 
that  was  even  a  trifle  excessive.  Mrs.  Dodge  had  been 
pressed  into  the  service,  and  had  been  bustling  this  way 


264  A  DREAM   OF   BLUE   ROSES 

and  that  all  the  previous  day ;  while  the  excellent  Sammle 
had  so  tidied  and  garnished  the  garden  that,  as  his  wife 
remarked,  "you  couldn't  collect  a  bit  of  rubbish,  not  if 
you  hunted  for  it  with  a  dustpan  and  brush." 

Stephen  Grant,  walking  up  the  flagged  path  between 
the  bright  flower  borders,  found  the  door  standing  open, 
and  the  cottage  apparently  deserted,  but  passing  round 
the  corner  of  the  orchard  he  stopped,  suddenly  arrested 
by  a  voice — a  young,  sweet  voice  carolling  the  same  song 
he  had  heard  under  the  apple  blossoms — 

"  Je  n'ouvre  pas  ma  porte  pour  un  patissier 
Qui  apporte  la  lune  dans  sans  tablier ! " 

He  drew  a  step  closer  to  the  open  window,  and  saw 
Barbara  standing  by  the  table  in  the  quaint  old  kitchen, 
engaged  in  setting  some  little  cakes  upon  a  china  plate. 
He  watched  her  for  a  few  minutes  unperceived. 

She  wore  a  light  cotton  frock  and  a  large  apron,  and 
her  sleeves  were  rolled  up  above  her  rounded  elbows. 
It  was  not  a  romantic  setting  for  a  picture,  for  her  hands 
were  not  guiltless  of  traces  of  flour,  and  her  face  was 
just  a  little  flushed  from  her  labours,  but  he  seemed  to 
find  it  attractive,  for  he  stood  and  watched  her  with  close 
attention.  She  was  not  beautiful,  he  told  himself,  and 
vet — there  was  that  about  her  which  beauty  often  lacked. 
iPerhaps  it  was  the  utter  absence  of  artificiality  or  pose 
which  gave  her  such  charm — her  face  seemed  to  mirror 
her  thoughts,  as  she  sang  to  herself,  for  now  and  again 
she  would  pause  as  some  thought  struck  her — some 
happy  reflection  which  set  it  dimpling  with  merriment 
and  gaiety ;  but  for  the  most  part  it  was  serious,  with 
an  illusive,  unfathomable  air  of  wisdom  beyond  her 
years.  And  all  the  while  her  deft,  capable  hands  were 
busy  with  her  task.  At  last  she  looked  up  and  saw  him 
standing  there. 

"Pardon,  Monsieur,"  she  said  quickly  ;  "I  dfd  not  hear 
you  arrive.    The  ladies  are  upstairs." 

"Do  not  disturb  them,"  he  replied.  "I  only  came  to 
see  if  there  was  anything  you  wanted.  If  you  want 
anything  from  St.  Ethel's,  the  car  can  fetch  it." 


THE   PARTY  265 

She  reflected  a  moment  before  she  answered. 

"No,  thank  you;  I  know  of  nothing.  I  did  my 
shopping  this  morning  very  early." 

"You  must  have  had  a  hot  ride." 

"No;  on  the  contrary,  it  was  pleasant  and  cool  when 
I  went." 

"  At  what  time  was  that  ?  " 

"Eight  o'clock,  Monsieur.  But  will  you  not  go  into 
the  parlour  and  sit  down,  or  take  a  chair  in  the  orchard  ? 
Miss  Margaret  is  resting,  and  Miss  Anne  is  with  her. 
Shall  I  not  tell  them  you  are  here?" 

"No,  don't  bother.  I  shall  see  them  this  afternoon. 
Who  taught  you  to  make  cakes  ?  "  he  asked  idly. 

"We  had  an  old  servant  at  home  who  taught  me  first. 
'Toinette  made  excellent  cakes,  and  later  I  learned  many 
others  from  Melanie,  who  is  the  sister  of  my  guardian." 

"Those  look  very  good." 

"Indeed,  I  do  not  think  that  Melanie  would  bri 
ashamed  of  them,"  she  said,  with  a  note  of  pride  in 
her  voice;  "but  there  is  one  kind  I  have  tried  again  and 
again,  and  I  cannot  succeed  with.  I  had  so  hoped  to 
make  them  for  to-day ;  but  no,  in  spite  of  all  my  trouble, 
they  came  as  flat  as  a  pancake  !  It  was  a  great  dis- 
appointment." 

"  What  sort  of  cakes  were  they  ?  " 

"We  called  them  *  Ailettes  D'anges';  '  Little  Wings 
of  Angels,'  you  would  say.  And  they  are  delicious. 
But  I  am  so  clumsy,  I  cannot  get  them  right.  When 
I  go  home  again  I  will  get  Melanie  to  show  me  more 
exactly." 

"  When  do  you  expect  to  go  home  ?  " 

For  a  second  the  girl's  mobile  face  clouded  over. 

"Ah,  Monsieur,  I  do  not  know  when  it  will  be.  Not 
for  a  long  time,  I  expect." 

"I  think  you  said  your  home  is  near  Fecamp?" 

"We  live  in  a  tiny  house  just  on  the  edge  of  the  forest. 
It  is  so  tiny  and  so  hidden  that  you  would  not  know  of 
its  existence  unless  you  just  chanced  upon  it.  But  it  is 
very  beautiful,  especially  in  autumn,  when  the  trees  are 
all  lovely  colours," 


266  A   DREAINI   OF   BLUE   ROSES 

"Rather  lonely,  isn't  it?" 

"We  never  found  it  so.  There  are  no  houses  close 
by,  that  is  true.  The  nearest  is  the  charcoal-burner's 
hut,  and  he  is  often  away  from  home.  The  village  itself 
and  the  church  are  half-a-mile  away  along  the  lane." 

"What  did  you  do  with  yourself  all  day  ?  There  could 
not  have  been  many  amusements." 

"On  the  contrary,  there  were  many,"  she  answered 
quickly.  "No  parties,  of  course,  like  to-day;  but  there 
was  the  garden  to  attend  to,  and  the  animals,  and  once 
a  week  the  journey  to  Fecamp.  There  was  always 
plenty  to  do.  Just  at  first,  when  we  went  to  live  there, 
we  missed  the  river;  we  had  always  lived  beside  the 
Seine,  and  it  felt  strange  not  to  see  the  water.  But  the 
forest  made  up  for  it  after  a  while,  and  also  we  had  more 
room  for  our  animals." 

Little  by  little  he  drew  her  on  to  tell  him  more  of  her 
home  life,  and  presently  she  found  herself  confiding  to 
him  the  sad  history  of  Alcibiade,  and  the  certainty  of 
his  tragic  end. 

"I  have  a  young  cock  here,"  she  told  him,  "which 
would  be  the  very  thing  for  Petite  M^re  at  home,  and 
we  do  not  require  him,  for  we  have  two  others.  He  will 
also  end  in  the  pot,  which  will  be  a  pity,  for  he  is  young 
and  handsome,  and  has  not  the  greedy  disposition  of 
Alcibiade." 

"Send  him  over  in  a  basket,"  suggested  Stephen. 

The  girl  laughed  gaily. 

"Oh,  the  poor  thing  !  How  he  would  suffer  if  the  sea 
was  rough  I  " 

"  It  was  not  rough  when  you  came  over." 

"No,  Monsieur,  it  was  only  windy,"  she  answered, 
with  a  gleam  of  mischief  in  her  brown  eyes;  "and  I  love 
a  wind." 

"  Even  when  it  wraps  a  newspaper  round  your  head  ?  " 
he  asked,  with  a  smile. 

"Even  then  it  is  not  unamusing.  Monsieur,"  she 
replied  demurely. 

Barbara  had  often  wondered  if  Stephen  Grant  had 
recognized  her,  but  he  had  never  before  referred  to  their 
first  meeting. 


THE   PARTY  267 

"  I  wonder  you  found  it  amusing,  for  you  looked  in 
rather  a  sad  mood  that  day." 

"I  had  just  left  my  home,  so  there  was  some  reason." 

"What  made  you  come  to  England,  all  alone?" 

"I  came  to  seek  my  fortune,  Monsieur,"  she  replied  in 
a  whimsical  way  which  left  him  uncertain  as  to  whether 
she  spoke  in  jest  or  earnest. 

"  I  trust  you  have  found  it,  Mademoiselle,"  he  returned, 
with  a  little  bow. 

"Up  to  the  present,  no.  Monsieur,  I  thank  you.  That 
is  yet  to  come.  So— now  I  have  finished.  It  is  time  I 
went  to  Miss  Anne." 

Four  o'clock  Had  been  the  hour  named  in  the  invita- 
tions, and  precisely  at  four  o'clock  Miss  Anne  and  Miss 
Margaret  took  up  their  positions  in  the  porch  to  await 
their  guests.  Miss  Margaret  was  arrayed  in  her  shortest 
and  most  frilly  frock,  with  its  usual  adornment  of  prim 
little  blue  bows  set  in  a  straight  row  from  neck  to  hem ; 
a  blue  ribbon  wandered  in  her  fluffy  hair,  and  on  her 
much-beringed  hands  she  wore  a  pair  of  white  lace 
mittens.  Her  toilet  had  taken  an  infinite  amount  of 
thought  and  time,  but  on  the  whole  she  was  satisfied  with 
the  result. 

Miss  Anne,  on  the  other  hand,  was  arrayed  simply  in 
her  Sunday  gown  of  black  silk,  but  the  pretty  cap  of 
Honiton  lace  upon  her  snowy  hair  gave  an  air  of  festivity 
to  her  appearance. 

At  two  minutes  past  four  the  latch  of  the  front  gate 
clicked,  heralding  the  arrival  of  Major  Vasey.  Miss 
Anne  glanced  somewhat  anxiously  at  him,  but  was 
immediately  reassured  by  his  look;  he  appeared  a  little 
less  melancholv  than  sometimes,  but  certainly  not  gay. 
He  had  pinned  a  small  white  rosebud  in  his  buttonhole 
to  do  honour  to  the  occasion,  a  fact  which  was  at  once 
noticed  and  commented  on  by  Miss  Margaret. 

Hardly  were  his  greetings  over  when  the  sound  of  the 
motor  was  heard  in  the  lane,  and  Miss  Anne  called  to 
Barbara  to  hasten  out  to  meet  her  friends. 

"Here  we  all  are,"  cried  Molly  gaily,  as  she  dis- 


268  A  DREAM   OF  BLUE   ROSES 

engaged  herself  from  the  enveloping  folds  of  her  veil 
and  bent  to  kiss  the  girl.  "How  we  ever  packed  in  I 
don't  know.  Tony  rode  on  the  step,  and  I  kept  on 
wondering  whether  he  had  dropped  off  without  being 
noticed." 

Phil  was  helping  his  father  out,  and  Barbara  flew  to 
his  side. 

'*  I  am  so  delighted  you  have  come ;  I  was  so  afraid 
you  would  not  be  equal  to  it." 

"I  have  heard  so  much  of  this  party  that  I  simply 
could  not  miss  it.  Stephen  is  going  to  take  me  back 
rather  early,  if  Miss  Leigh  will  excuse  me." 

It  was  the  first  time  that  the  old  ladies  had  met  Molly's 
husband,  but  the  introduction  was  soon  effected,  and  Miss 
Anne  herself  conducted  him  to  a  comfortable  chair  with 
soft  cushions  which  stood  ready  for  him  in  a  shady  spot. 

"Why,  Aunt  Margaret,  how  gay  you  look!"  said 
Stephen.  "I  don't  think  I  have  ever  seen  you  so  smart 
before." 

Miss  Margaret  bridled  with  pleasure,  and  looked  very 
coy. 

"I  never  change  my  style,  Stephen,  as  you  are  aware. 
I  have  always  felt  that  w-hen  one  particular  style  suits 
a  lady  she  had  better  make  it  exclusively  her  own." 

"I  am  sure  that  is  true,"  said  Molly  tactfully. 

At  this  moment,  Phil,  who  had  been  standing  close 
by,  dropped  on  his  knees  in  front  of  Miss  Margaret,  and 
commenced  to  play  "She  loves  me,  she  loves  me  not," 
with  the  little  blue  bows.  The  little  lady  gave  a  faint 
shriek  of  delight. 

"Oh,"  she  cried,  "how  could  you  think  of  such  a 
thing?" 

"There  !  now  you've  interrupted  me!  "  exclaimed  the 
boy,  and  proceeded  to  begin  all  over  again,  until  the  line 
ended  up  with  a  final  "She  loves  me,"  under  Miss 
Margaret's  plump  chin. 

Rising,  he  bowed  triumphantly.  "She  loves  me!  I 
have  always  suspected  it,  but  we  won't  let  the  world 
into  our  secret,  will  we,  Miss  Margaret  ? " 

"Such  a  charming  idea  t  "  she  murmured  ecstatically. 


THE   PARTY  269 

"Are  we  all  here?"  asked  Miss  Anne.  "Has  Mr. 
Poole  arrived  ?  Oh  !  there  he  is ;  now  1  think  we  will 
have  tea." 

"I  walked  across  the  fields,"  explained  the  old  gentle- 
man. "It  is  always  a  pleasant  walk,  but  a  trifle  warm 
this  afternoon.  Hullo,  Arkwright !  I  am  glad  to  see 
you." 

"Unwonted  dissipation  for  me,  isn't  it?" 

"Can't  1  come  and  help  you,  Barbara?"  said  Phil. 

"  Yes,  do.  But  there  is  only  the  tea  to  be  made ;  every- 
thing else  is  ready  on  the  table.  Do  you  know,  I  had 
the  greatest  difficulty  in  finding  enough  seats;  as  it  is, 
I  have  had  to  use  the  bench  out  of  the  hall.  That  will 
be  all  right,  unless  it  gives  way." 

"Oh,  it  won't  do  that;  it  is  very  strong,  but  I  am 
afraid  it  is  rather  hard." 

"  I  would  rather  sit  on  a  form  than  stand  on  ceremony," 
retorted  the  lad. 

"Go  on,  Phil!  That  isn't  original.  I've  heard  it 
before,"  said  Stephen,  who  overheard  this  remark. 

"  Possibly.  There  is  nothing  really  original  in  this 
world.  True  cleverness  lies  in  making  apt  use  of  the 
brains  of  other  people.     That  is  where  I  shine  !  " 

"You  won't  shine  if  you  drop  the  teapot !  Do,  please, 
be  careful.    You  are  spilling  it  now  !  " 

"Let  me  carry  something,"  said  Stephen.  "I  don't 
like  to  be  idle  when  I  see  Phil  over-exerting  himself  in 
this  way." 

With  that  he  picked  up  a  jug  of  milk,  and  they  walked 
in  solemn  procession  to  the  orchard,  where  the  others 
had  already  taken  their  seats  at  the  table. 


CHAPTER    XXVII 

AN   UNEXPECTED   GUEST 

"  Careful  with  fire,  is  good  advice,  we  know ! 
Careful  with  words,  is  ten  times  doubly  so  ! " 

"Where's  my  Patsy?"  asked  Molly  suddenly,  for 
the  child  had  disappeared. 

She  was  soon  discovered  deep  in  conversation  with 
her  friend  Sammle,  and  brought  back  mounted  on 
Phil's  shoulder. 

"Here  is  a  bundle  of  rubbish,"  he  called.  "Where 
shall  I  drop  it?" 

"We  can  make  room  for  her  here,"  said  her  mother, 
who  was  seated  next  to  Mr.  Poole.  "Then  I  can  look 
after  her." 

"Come,  my  dear,"  said  the  old  man  kindly,  "there  is 
room  for  a  little  one." 

"  Here,  Patsy,"  said  her  brother,  as  he  deposited  her 
in  her  place,  "you  can  play  at  being  the  ham  in  the 
sandwich.  If  you  don't  sit  still  we'll  have  to  add  the 
mustard." 

"Me  an'  Alius  was  telling  me  a  story  last  night  about 
a  lady  who  was  turned  into  mustard,"  remarked  the 
child  reflectively,  as  she  helped  herself  to  bread  and 
butter. 

"Dear  me!"  ejaculated  Mr.  Poole.  "I  never  heard 
of  such  a  thing.     It  sounds  very  uncomfortable." 

"It  was  a  most  interesting  story.  I  should  have 
thought  you  would  have  heard  it.  It  was  all  about  a 
lady  called  Mrs.  Lot.  They  were  running  away  from 
their  home  ever  so  fast,  and  God  said  Mrs.  Lot  wasn't 
to  turn  round,  and  she  did  turn  round,  and  God  made 
her  into  a  tin  of  mustard." 

270 


AN   UNEXPECTED   GUEST  271 

Phil  gave  a  yell  of  laughter,  and  old  Mr.  Poole's 
shoulders  shook  convulsively. 

"Salt,  Patsy  darling,"  said  Molly,  stifling  her 
amusement. 

"Salt,  was  it?"  returned  Patsy  composedly.  "I 
couldn't  quite  remember.  I  knew  it  was  something 
off  the  dinner  table.  I  would  sooner  'be  salt  than 
mustard.  I  tasted  mustard  once,  and  it  burned  my 
tongue.  Me  an'  Alius  tells  me  lots  of  stories  about 
things  that  happened  in  the  Bible,  and  we  play  at  acting 
them.  Last  night  when  I  was  in  my  bath,  1  played 
it  was  the  Red  Sea,  where  the  chariots  and  horses 
were  drowned,  and  I  got  my  hair  dreadfully  wet,  and 
Me  an'  Alius  wouldn't  let  me  play  it  any  more.  It 
must  have  been  very  exciting  coming  out  of  the  land 
of  Egypt  and  out  of  the  house  of  Bandage." 

"Most  exciting,"  agreed  Mr.  Poole.  "The  house  of 
what,  did  you  say  ?  " 

"The  house  of  Bandage,"  repeated  the  child.  "Me 
an'  Alius  was  talking  about  that.  We  weren't  quite 
certain  what  it  was,  but  we  think  it  must  have  been 
something  like  the  big  house  in  St.  Ethel's,  where  people 
go  when  they  have  an  accident  and  break  their  arms 
and  legs.  1  suppose  the  children  of  Israel  did  have 
just  as  many  accidents  as  we  do  now?" 

"  I  should  think  it  was  highly  probable,"  replied 
the  old  gentleman.  He  delighted  in  Patsy's  con- 
versation. 

"Of  course  there  weren't  no  motor-cars  nor  trains, 
but  there  were  horses  and  chariots,  and  I  expect  people 
fell  off  them  just  the  same  as  people  do  now." 

"Your  daughter's  knowledge  of  Bible  history  may- 
be described  as  more  extensive  than  accurate,"  remarked 
Mr.  Poole  to  Molly,  with  a  chuckle,  as  Patsy  ceased 
speaking  and  took  a  second  slice  of  cake. 

Meanwhile  Phil  was  engaged  in  talking  nonsense  to 
Miss  Margaret,   to  that  lady's  great  joy. 

"Names  ought  to  sound  nice,"  he  was  saying.  "Now 
you,  of  course,  are  fortunate ;  you  have  a  name  which 
is    associated    with    a    simple    domestic    flower — could 


272  A   DREAM   OF   BLUE   ROSES 

anything  be  sweeter  !  But  just  glance  round  you  and 
note  the  ridiculous  names  with  which  people  handicap 
their  unfortunate  offspring.  Look  at  poor  Barbara, 
for  instance.  Was  there  ever  a  more  cruel  name? 
Barbara !  " 

"Yes,"  answered  the  girl  quickly. 

"I  was  not  calling  you,  I  was  merely  trying  to 
demonstrate  the  fact  that  of  all  the  names  I  have  ever 
heard,  yours  is  the  most  tiresome.  To  me  it  suggests 
nothing  but  the  bleating  of  many  sheep.  BaaBaaRaa  ! 
Sheep  !  The  most  brainless  and  foolish  of  animals ! 
Poor  girl,  I  sympathize  with  you  !  I  think  I  shall  start 
a  society  for  the  instruction  of  parents  in  the  choice  of 
suitable  patronymics.  Stephen,  too,  is  a  distressing 
name.  No  one  could  be  really  cheerful  who  was  called 
Stephen  !  It  is  shadowed  by  tragedy.  If  my  name 
was  Stephen,  I  should  feel  morally  bound  to  be  a 
martyr,  and  then  think  how  unpleasant  I  should  be  to 
live  with  !  " 

"I  think  Stephen  is  a  nice  honest  name,"  said  Miss 
Margaret,  who  never  grasped  more  than  half  the 
meaning  of  Phil's  foolery.  "I  once  knew  a  girl 
who  was  called  Emma  Jane,  which  certainly  sounded 
very " 

"Plebeian!"  declared  Phil.  "Hopelessly  plebeian  I 
I  am  sure  she  married  beneath  her !  " 

"No,  she  married  a  lord,  but  she  changed  her  name 
long  before  that,  and  pronounced  it  in  the  French  way, 
*  Imogene.' " 

"What  a  flash  of  genius!  Now,  doesn't  that  show 
the  importance  of  a  really  high-sounding  name? 
Imogene  !  It  suggests  palaces  and  princesses  at  once. 
Personally,  if  1  had  a  daughter,  I  should  call  her 
Vinolia.  Oh  yes,  of  course,  I  know  it  has  been  used 
commercially,  but  there  is  something  so  healing  and 
soft  about  it.    Sapolio,  too,  is  another  of  my  favourites." 

"I'm  jolly  glad  my  name  isn't  Philip,  that's  all  I 
can  say,"  said  Tony,  with  brotherly  candour. 

"Now,  my  dear  chap,  you're  quite  right,  it  wouldn't 
suit  you  a  bit.     For  myself,  I  have  no  quarrel  with  my 


AN   UNEXPECTED   GUEST  273 

parents,  being  fortunate  enough  to  have  a  name  which 
fits  me  like  a  glove.  Philip !  Always  merry  and 
bright !  You  must  be  singularly  unobservant  if  you 
have  not  noticed  that  when  things  are  not  going  as 
gaily  as  I  could  wish,  when  Stephen,  for  instance,  is 
oppressed  by  gloom,  it  is  I  who  give  the  Fillip  to  your 
drooping  spirits." 

He  rose  and  bowed  repeatedly,  with  exaggerated 
gesture,  in  answer  to  the  laughter  which  his  nonsense 
evoked,  and  he  was  just  continuing  further  in  the 
same  strain  when  the  hoot  of  a  motor  horn  sounded  in 
the  lane. 

It  arrested  attention,  for  up  to  the  present  Stephen's 
car  had  been  the  only  one  which  ever  came  to  Fiddler's 
Green. 

"I  hear  what  Mrs.  Dodge  calls  a  motter-'orn,"  said 
Barbara.     "I  wonder  whose  it  can  be?" 

"I've  finished  my  tea,"  said  Patsy.  "I'll  run  and 
peep." 

She  tiptoed  to  the  end  of  the  path,  and  then  tore  back 
again  on  flying  feet. 

"  It's  a  lady !  And  she's  coming  in  here.  A  very 
smart  lady." 

"A  lady  in  a  motor  I  "  exclaimed  Miss  Anne.  "Who 
can  it  be  ?  " 

In  another  moment  the  mystery  was  solved,  for  it 
was  Flora  Moultrie  who  came  sailing  towards  them. 
She  wore  a  pink  silk  dust-coat,  and  her  pink  veil,  which 
became  her  excellently,  was  thrown  back  from  her 
face. 

Stephen  walked  to  meet  her,  feeling  distinctly 
ungrateful  for  her  visit.  Their  party  had  been  quite 
complete  without  her,  and  he  had  an  idea  somehow 
Flora  wouldn't  quite  fit  in  with  present  company. 

Even  her  appearance  struck  a  wrong  note  in  the  little 
garden.  Her  clothes  might  have  done  for  Ascot  on 
Cup  day,  but  they  were  too  noticeable  here. 

"  Ha,  ha !  "  she  said  playfully,  as  they  shook  hands. 
"I  have  come  to  see  whether  you  are  getting  into 
mischief.    As  a  matter  of  fact,  I  am  staying  with  friends 

T 


274  A  DREAM   OF   BLUE   ROSES 

about  ten  miles  off,  and  as  they  had  a  stupid  baazar  and 
there  was  a  motor  at  my  disposal,  I  thought  I  would 
come  over  and  make  Cousin  Anne's  acquaintance." 

Miss  Anne  received  her  pleasantly,  but  was  decidedly 
surprised  at  the  kiss  which  this  unknown  cousin  insisted 
on  bestowing  on  both  her  and  Miss  Margaret. 

"You  will  have  a  cup  of  tea  after  your  drive,"  said 
Miss  Anne,  after  she  had  introduced  her  to  the 
assembly. 

"I  should  love  it,  thank  you.  What  an  adorable 
little  place  you  have  here." 

Barbara:  had  hastily  disappeared  in  search  of  fresh 
tea,  and  presently  returned  carrying  a  small  tray. 

Phil  took  it  from  her  as  she  approached  the  table, 
and  Miss  Anne,  seeing  her,  said — 

"May  I  introduce  Miss  Vincent?" 

Flora  bowed  slightly,  without  pausing  in  her  remarks. 

"  I  never  saw  such  a  mass  of  flowers  !  I  have  wanted 
to  come  and  see  you  for  such  a  long  time.  It  seems 
such  a  pity  that  relations  should  not  know  one  another, 
and  I  have  heard  so  much  of  you  from  Stephen." 

"We  live  quite  out  of  the  world,"  said  Miss  Anne 
gently;  "it  is  good  of  you  to  take  the  trouble  to 
come." 

"  I  did  not  expect  to  find  such  a  large  party,"  con- 
tinued Flora.  "I  hope  I  have  not  come  at  an  incon- 
venient time." 

"Oh  no,"  Miss  Anne  assured  her. 

"We  are  having  a  tea-party,"  said  Miss  Margaret 
eagerly.  "It  is  the  first  we  have  had  for  so  many  years. 
Will  you  not  try  one  of  these  ?  "  She  proffered  a  plate 
of  cakes  as  she  spoke. 

"What  divine  cakes!"  cried  Flora  extravagantly. 
"Don't  tell  me  they  are  made  at  home.  Your  cook 
must  be  a  treasure." 

"We  have  to  thank  Miss  Vincent  for  those,"  replied 
Miss  Anne,  glancing  kindly  at  Barbara,  who  was  stand- 
ing at  the  head  of  the  table  close  to  her,  uncertain 
whether  she  ought  to  stay  in  case  the  visitor  required 
another  cup  of  tea.     The  others  had  moved  away  a 


AN  UNEXPECTED   GUEST  275 

little,  and  were  talking  together,  with  the  exception  of 
Stephen,  who  was  seated  by  Kis  aunt. 

Flora  Moultrie  raised  her  long  tortoise-shell  lorgnette 
and  stared  at  Barbara  with  a  cool  scrutiny  which  was 
embarrassing. 

"Really!  "  she  said  languidly,  "it  is  difficult  to  find 
any  one  who  can  make  cakes  now-a-days  !  Every  one 
has  been  wondering  what  has  become  of  Stephen.  I 
suspected  he  was  living  the  simple  life  somewhere  in 
the  wilds,  but  I  did  not  give  away  his  secret.  We  have 
all  missed  him  so  much."  ^ 

Stephen  pushed  back  his  chair  and  rose  to  his  feet. 
Why  in  the  world  did  Flora  put  on  such  absurd  airs 
and  talk  like  a  fool  ? 

"We  are  very  pleased  to  have  him  with  us,"  said 
Miss  Anne,  in  her  gentle  voice.  "We  have  seen  so 
little  of  him  of  late  years.  Would  you  care  to  walk 
round  the  garden  ?  " 

"I  should  be  enchanted.  I  adore  flowers,  although  I 
am  afraid  I  don't  know  very  much  about  them."  She 
moved  towards  Stephen  as  she  spoke,  and  gave  him 
a  look  as  much  as  to  say,  "Spare  me!  It  is  you  I 
came  to  see." 

But  Miss  Anne  had  her  own  ideas  of  what  was  her 
duty  as  hostess,  and  her  unexpected  guest  was  obliged 
to  accompany  her  and  listen  to  her  polite  remarks  upon 
horticulture. 

After  a  few  minutes  of  it  Flora  was  supremely  bored, 
and  said  she  must  be  returning. 

"  I  am  so  delighted  to  have  seen  you  and  your  charm- 
ing cottage.  Oh  no,  please  don't  trouble  to  come  with 
me.  Stephen  will  escort  me  to  the  gate,"  and  she 
made  her  adieux. 

"Well,"  she  said  softly,  as  soon  as  they  were  alone, 
"when  are  you  coming  back  to  civilization?" 

"I  don't  know,"  he  answered  vaguely.  "I  haven't 
made  any  plans." 

"Do  come,"  she  said,  throwing  him  a  pleading  look, 
which  was  entirely  lost  upon  him.  "I  wish  you 
would." 

T  2 


276  A  DREA^I   OF   BLUE   ROSES 

"I  haven't  made  any  plans  yet,"  he  repeated. 

"Poor  old  Stephen.  I  should  have  thought  you  were 
the  last  person  in  the  world  to " 

"To  what?"  he  asked  shortly. 

"To  be  attracted  by — what  shall  I  say — such  a 
Martha !  "  She  glanced  back  to  where  Barbara,  amid 
a  good  deal  of  happy  talk  and  jesting,  was  clearing 
away  the  tea  things.  "She  is  certainly  pretty,  but 
just  imagine  her  in  London,  can  you  ? " 

Stephen's  only  reply  was  to  offer  his  hand  to  assist 
her  into  the  car.  His  lack  of  response  roused  Flora's 
temper,  which  was  never  under  perfect  control. 

"You  are  an  idiot  to  stay  philandering  round  a  girl 
like  that — you  had  better  chuck  it." 

"Don't  be  a  fool,  Flora,"  said  Stephen  sharply. 

Flora  realized  quickly  that  she  had  gone  too 
far. 

"Don't  be  angry.  I  was  only  joking.  Let  me  know 
when  I  am  to  congratulate  you,"  and  with  an  airy  wave 
of  the  hand  she  departed. 

Her  visit  had  only  lasted  half-an-hour,  but  it  was 
destined  to  have  a  lasting  effect,  for  Stephen  could  not 
rid  his  mind  of  the  sting  contained  in  her  parting  shot. 
Sitting  over  a  pipe  late  the  same  evening,  he  thought 
of  it  over  and  over  again.  The  word  philandering  had 
an  ugly  sound  in  his  ears,  and  that  there  was 
undoubtedly  some  truth  in  the  charge  only  made  the 
matter  worse.  As  for  congratulations,  why,  the  idea  of 
marriage  had  never  entered  his  head.  Barbara  Vincent 
was  a  very  charming  girl,  but  he  had  not  the  very 
faintest  desire  to  marry  her  or  any  one  else,  or  so  he 
told  himself.  He  had  certainly  enjoyed  the  last  few  weeks 
very  much;  he  was  fond  of  his  aunts  and  he  was  fond 
of  the  Arkwrights,  and  the  time  had  passed  quickly  ; 
but  if  people  were  going  to  imagine  that  he  was  con- 
templating marriage,  they  were  very  much  mistaken. 
The  last  thing  he  desired  was  to  saddle  himself  with 
a  wife.  He  turned  the  matter  over  and  over  in  his 
mind,  and  at  last  came  to  the  conclusion  that  although 
Flora  had  of  course  been  absolutely  mistaken   in   her 


AN   UNEXPECTED   GUEST  277 

supposition,  yet  she  had  not  been  far  wrong  in  her 
advice.     He  had  better  chuck  it ! 

The  upshot  of  this  was  that  he  went  over  to  the 
"Porch  Cottage"  the  next  day  and  told  Miss  Anne  that 
his  visit  had  come  to  an  end,  and  he  was  off  on  his 
travels  again.  Poor  Miss  Anne  was  surprised  and 
grieved. 

"I  thought  you  were  getting  so — settled,  Stephen," 
she  said  pitifully. 

"I  have  been  a  wanderer  too  long  to  settle  anywhere, 
I  am  afraid,"  was  his  non-committal  reply. 

Barbara  happened  to  be  out  in  the  village  upon  some 
errand,  so  he  did  not  meet  her. 

He  then  went  on  to  see  the  Arkwrights,  who  broke 
into  lamentation  at  his  departure.  Molly  looked  at  him 
closely,  as  though  searching  for  the  true  reason  for  this 
sudden  change  of  plan,  but  she  could  learn  nothing 
from  his  face.  Molly  had  been  building  some  castles 
in  the  air,  and  she  found  them  tumbling  about  her  feet 
in  the  most  disconcerting  way. 

"Have  you  been  to  see  your  aunts?  Poor  Miss 
Anne  will  be  sorry  to  lose  you." 

He  repeated  something  about  his  wandering  pro- 
pensities. 

"  How  was  Barbara ;  not  too  tired  after  yesterday,  I 
hope  ?  " 

"I  did  not  see  Miss  Vincent.    She  was  not  at  home." 

Molly  sighed.  What  utterly  inexplicable  people  men 
were.  You  simply  never  knew  what  they  would  do 
next. 

When  Stephen  arrived  in  London  next  day,  he 
looked  round  his  rooms  with  si  sigh  of  satisfaction. 
They  were  familiar  and  comfortable,  and  there  was 
no  one  to  ask  a  word  as  to  his  comings  or  goings. 
"Fancy  giving  up  one's  freedom,"  he  thought  to  him- 
self. "Not  I,  for  one."  And  yet,  somehow,  again  and 
again  his  thoughts  reverted  to  the  little  orchard  with 
the  old  apple-trees,  and  again  and  again  a  little  refrain 
floated  across  his  memory.  "Curious  how  things  stick 
in  vour  mind,"  he  said  to  himself. 


278  A  DREAM   OF   BLUE   ROSES 

He  remained  in  London  a  few  days,  and  then  ordered 
his  man  to  pack  his  kit  and  his  fishing-rods. 

"Going  out  of  England,  sir?"  asked  the  servant. 

"Yes,  I  think  I  shall  try  Finland  again  this  year." 

"Any  idea  when  you  will  be  back,  sir?" 

"Not  the  smallest." 

He  was  walking  along  Piccadilly  one  afternoon,  return- 
ing from  an  expedition  in  search  of  a  particular  fly  he 
wished  to  take  with  him,  when  he  passed  a  picture 
shop,  and  stopped  to  examine  the  contents  of  the 
window.  He  was  not  really  interested,  merely  idling, 
for  time  hung  a  little  heavy  on  his  hands.  None  of  his 
friends  knew  he  was  in  town,  and  he  had  not  sought 
them  out.  There  were  one  or  two  water-colours  of  the 
"pretty"  order  and  a  few  prints,  but  nothing  worth 
looking  at,  he  thought,  and  he  was  just  turning  away, 
when  his  eyes  fell  on  a  little  picture ;  and,  having  once 
looked  he  looked  again. 

It  was  a  sketch  in  pencil,  very  delicately  drawn,  and 
with  here  and  there  a  faint  tint  in  colour,  and  repre- 
sented a  cottage  doorway  under  an  overhanging 
thatched  roof.  The  door  was  open  just  a  little  way, 
and  a  girl's  face  was  peeping  through  the  chink.  In 
front  of  the  door  stood  a  cupid  with  a  cap  perched  on 
his  head,  a  small  white  cap  such  as  pastrycooks  wear. 
In  his  apron,  which  he  was  holding  up  in  both  hands, 
he  carried  a  crescent  moon,  while  on  the  ground  beside 
him  lay  his  bow.  Underneath  were  written  the  words, 
so  familiar  to  Stephen — 

"Je  n'ouvre  pas  ma  porte  pour  un  patissier 
Qui  apporte  la  lune  dans  son  tablier." 

But  it  was  not  at  the  figure  of  the  little  god  of  love 
that  he  gazed  so  intently,  but  at  the  face  of  the  girl 
half  hidden  behind  the  door.  All  he  could  see  was  a 
pair  of  laughing  eyes  under  a  riot  of  soft  hair — a  straight 
little  nose  and  a  dimpled  mouth.  That  was  all.  He 
stood  for  some  time,  and  then,  turning  away,  he  walked 
right  up  Piccadilly — on,  past  the  turning  which  would 
have  led  him  home ;  on  up  to  Hyde  Park  Corner,  down 


AN  UNEXPECTED   GUEST  279 

Constitution  Hill,  and  so  on  until,  having  completed 
the  circle,  he  found  himself  again  in  Piccadilly  in  front 
of  the  picture  shop.  After  another  interval  of  indecision, 
this  time  considerably  shorter,  he  walked  inside,  and 
emerged  a  little  later  with  a  flat  parcel  wrapped  in 
brown  paper  under  his  arm. 

When  he  reached  his  rooms  he  unpacked  it,  and 
again  examined  it  with  care;  but  he  did  not,  as  people 
usually  do  with  a  newly  acquired  possession  of  that 
kind,  set  it  up  on  the  mantelpiece  for  all  to  see.  Instead 
of  this,  he  placed  it  carefully  in  the  drawer  of  his 
writing-table  and  turned  the  key  on  it. 

It  may  have  been  that  on  second  thoughts  he  felt 
this  was  not  a  sufficiently  secure  place,  or  there  may 
have  been  another  reason  equally  good ;  but  the  fact 
remains  that  the  picture  did  not  stay  there  long,  for 
when  he  started  for  Finland,  a  few  days  later,  it  was 
reposing  at  the  bottom  of  his  suit-case. 

Truly  Molly  had  been  right  when  she  said  that  men 
were   utterly   inexplicable  creatures ! 


CHAPTER    XXVIII 
"better,  nancy,  better!" 

"Underneath  all  things  that  be 
Lies  an  unsolved  mystery. 

Over  all 
Spreads  a  veil  impenetrably 
Spreads  a  dense  unlifted  pall." 

Christina  Rossetti. 

"Oh  dear,  oh  dear  I  "  said  Miss  Margaret  plaintively, 
"the  leaves  are  falling  all  over  my  garden,  and  I  tidied 
it  only  yesterday,  and  the  wind  has  blown  down  several 
of  my  plants." 

"Never  mind,  Miss  Margaret,  I  will  see  to  it  presently 
for  you.  The  plants  don't  really  matter  now,  you  know, 
because  they  are  over,  and  the  ground  will  have  to  be 
cleared  for  you  to  sow  fresh  seeds  in  the  spring." 

But  the  old  lady  was  not  to  be  comforted. 

"I  can't  think  what  has  come  to  everything,"  she 
wailed  fretfully.  "  Everything  seems  to  be  going  wrong. 
My  Patience  wouldn't  come  out  last  night,  and  I  always 
get  it  out  before  I  go  to  bed.  Sometimes  it  is  a  great 
deal  of  trouble,  and  sometimes  I  am  really  obliged  just 
to  change  a  card — it  isn't  really  cheating,  you  know, 
because  it  is  only  a  game,  and  1  play  it  all  by  myself ; 
but  last  night  I  changed  two  cards,  and  even  then  it 
would  not  come  out.  I  don't  know  what  has  happened 
to  sister,  she  seems  so  low-spirited,  and  no  one  ever 
comes  to  see  us  now." 

"Perhaps  the  luck  will  be  with  you  to-night,"  said 
Barbara,  "It  would  be  nice  if  it  came  out  right  the 
first  time  without  any  bother,  wouldn't  it?" 

"Why  does  no  one  come  and  see  us  now?  "  persisted 
Miss  Margaret.  "We  had  so  many  visitors,  and  now 
every  one  has  forgotten  us.    Even  Major  Vasey  hasn't 

280 


'BETTER,   NANCY,    BETTER!'  281 

been  near  us  for  weeks.  I  do  think  it  is  so  unkind  ! 
Of  course  I  know  he  doesn't  come  to  see  me,  and  he 
always  talks  most  to  sister  Anne;  but  still,  he  is  better 
than  nobody." 

Barbara  had  learned  by  experience  that  when  Miss 
Margaret  was  in  one  of  these  miserable  moods  it  was 
no  use  trying  to  argue  with  her,  the  only  thing  was  to 
try  and  distract  her  mind  in  some  way.  She  tried 
several  artifices  without  success,  but  at  last  hit  upon 
the  happy  idea  of  going  up  to  the  old  lady's  room  with 
her,  ostensibly  to  arrange  some  details  of  her  wardrobe, 
but  in  reality  to  set  her  playing  with  odds  and  ends  of 
ribbon  and  fal-lals  of  which  she  had  a  great  hoard. 
She  had  an  unfailing  memory  for  the  history  of  every 
scrap  of  lace,  every  bit  of  ribbon  or  silk.  She  could 
tell  you  the  day  she  had  worn  it,  and  what  people  had 
said  to  her,  and  what  she  had  replied.  She  loved  to  sit 
handling  and  stroking  them,  for  to  her  they  were  not 
just  faded  and,  for  the  most  part,  worthless  remnants, 
they  were  pages  out  of  the  Book  of  the  Gone  By,  full 
of  tender  meaning.  She  required  no  attention  beyond 
an  occasional  word  of  encouragement  when  the  flood  of 
her  reminiscences  ceased  for  a  moment,  and  Barbara, 
seated  on  the  floor  with  an  untidy  heap  beside  her,  folded 
and  straightened  mechanically,  and  let  her  thoughts 
wander  far  from  the  task  in  hand. 

She  had,  in  truth,  ample  food  for  thought  just  at  the 
present  time,  and  was  more  than  a  little  inclined  to  agree 
with  Miss  Margaret  that  everything  seemed  to  be  going 
wrong. 

First  and  chiefly  she  thought  of  dear  Miss  Anne,  and 
with  the  deepest  pity,  for  alas  !  the  promise  of  summer 
had  not  been  fulfilled,  and  just  as  the  girl  was  con- 
gratulating herself  that  the  stream  of  life  at  the  "Porch 
Cottage  "  was  flowing  unruffled  on  its  way,  dark-pointed 
rocks  began  to  poke  their  jagged  heads  above  the  sur- 
face. Her  heart  had  so  gone  out  to  the  gentle  lady  who 
treated  her  with  such  unfailing  kindness,  that  with  tender 
sympathy  she  longed  above  all  to  find  some  means  to 
help.     And  this  was  just  what  she  was  unable  to  do. 


282  A  DREAM   OF   BLUE   ROSES 

Major  Vasey's  practice  of  calling  on  the  ladies  on 
each  alternate  day  had  continued  for  about  a  month, 
then  his  visits  had  become  more  and  more  irregular, 
and,  sad  to  say,  frequent  nocturnal  disturbances  had 
made  it  only  too  evident  that  he  had  returned  to  his  old 
habits  after  an  unusually  protracted  spell  of  good 
behaviour. 

As  Barbara  told  herself,  this  really  would  not  have 
mattered  very  greatly  if  it  had  not  been  for  its  effect 
on  Miss  Anne.  The  Major  was  an  old  man,  and 
although  she  had  no  actual  knowledge,  yet  she  pre- 
sumed that  his  weakness  was  nothing  new,  it  was  hardly 
to  be  expected  that  he  could  reform  so  late  in  life.  If 
he  would  only  have  stayed  quietly  at  home  instead  of 
wandering  abroad  when  the  attack  was  on  him,  it  might 
have  been  ignored.  But  when  each  succeeding  outburst 
left  poor  Miss  Anne  frailer,  and  whiter,  and  sadder,  it 
became  really  serious.  She  never  spoke  of  it  to  Bar- 
bara, the  subject  was  never  mentioned  between  them, 
although  the  old  lady  must  have  realized  that  the  girl 
was  fully  aware  of  the  circumstances,  and  Barbara  had 
done  all  in  her  power  to  ease  her  mind,  had  left  no  stone 
unturned.  She  had  treated  Miss  Anne's  terrible 
nervousness  as  though  it  were  caused  simply  by  the  fear 
of  some  marauding  stranger,  who  might  be  prowling 
round  the  Green,  she  had  gone  so  far  as  to  procure  a 
chain  and  padlock  and  to  secure  the  gate  towards  even- 
ing, to  make  sure  "that  no  burglars  could  break  in." 
Miss  Anne  had  made  no  comment.  It  seemed  impos- 
sible to  combat  her  terror.  Barbara  thought  more  than 
once  of  appealing  to  some  one  for  advice,  but  Mr.  Poole, 
who  was  Miss  Anne's  only  really  intimate  friend,  had  been 
away  from  home  lately,  enjoying  a  well-earned  holiday. 

In  addition  to  this  Barbara  was  troubled  about  her 
friends  at  the  "White  House."  Little  Patsy  had  been 
taken  ill  with  measles,  not  long  after  the  afternoon  of 
the  "party"  when  they  had  all  been  so  full  of  health 
and  merriment,  and  for  a  while  her  condition  had  been 
critical.  Then,  just  as  she  was  recovering,  the  boys,  one 
after  another,  had  succumbed  to  the  complaint. 


'BETTER,   NANCY,   BETTER!*  283 

Molly  had,  and  rightly,  refused  to  allow  Barbara  to 
come  to  the  house  for  fear  of  infection,  and  she  had 
only  been  able  to  see  her  friend  very  occasionally, 
just  to  exchange  a  few  words  at  the  garden  gate 
when  Molly  could  spare  some  moments  from  the  sick- 
rooms. 

Now,  none  of  the  invalids  were  in  danger,  but  poor 
Molly  had  her  hands  full,  for,  with  the  exception  of 
herself  and  her  husband.  Alius  was  the  only  one  of  the 
household  who  had  escaped  the  epidemic.  The  faithful 
"  Me  "  had  been  the  latest  victim,  and,  it  must  be  con- 
fessed, the  most  troublesome  patient  of  all. 

As  was  only  to  be  expected,  the  worry  and  anxiety 
had  been  very  trying  to  Dick,  whose  slender  store  of 
strength  had  been  taxed  to  the  utmost,  for  he  had  done 
all  and  more  than  he  was  fit  for  towards  easing  the 
burden  which  rested  mainly  on  his  wife's  shoulders, 
and  he  was  now  paying  the  penalty.  Here  again 
Barbara  longed  to  help,  and  longed  in  vain. 

"  Barbara,  I  do  not  think  you  are  listening." 

She  roused  herself  with  a  start,  as  she  realized  Miss 
Margaret  was  speaking. 

"  I  beg  your  pardon,  I  am  so  sorry." 

"I  was  showing  you  this  little  pair  of  mittens.  You 
would  hardly  think  I  used  to  wear  them,  would  you,  but 
they  were  mine  when  I  was  quite  a  child?  I  can  quite 
well  remember  the  day  Mamma  gave  them  to  me.  It 
was  on  my  bitrhday,  and  I  can  remember  going  into  her 
room,  it  was  the  one  sister  has  now,  and  her  wishing 
me  many  happy  returns  of  the  day.  I  was  so  delighted 
with  them.  Don't  you  think  they  are  pretty?  I  used 
to  wear  them  in  the  evenings.  We  always  went  in  to 
Mamma  in  the  evenings,  and  played  games.  Draughts 
and  Solitaire,  and  sometimes  Pope  Joan.  If  we  were 
very  good  we  used  to  be  allowed  to  use  the  ivory 
draught-board  with  the  carved  men  which  stands  on  the 
parlour  table  now.  I  have  never  used  them  since 
Mamma  died.  I  should  not  like  to  do  so  without  her 
permission.  Have  you  seen  a  pair  of  white  satin  shoes, 
Barbara  ?     They  ought  to  be  here." 


284  A   DREAM   OF   BLUE   ROSES 

"Yes;  I  have  just  wrapped  them  up  in  paper." 

"Oh  !  I  was  afraid  I  had  lost  them."  Miss  Margaret 
unfolded  them  and  touched  them  lightly  with  caressing 
fingers.  "I  am  so  fond  of  them,  Barbara.  I  wore  them 
at  my  first  ball.  It  was  at  the  Town  Hall  at  St.  Ethel's, 
and  was  a  very  smart  affair.  I  wore  a  gown  of  white 
tarlatan,  and  it  was  very  much  admired.  We  never  had 
heels  to  our  shoes  in  those  days,  although  you  may 
think  it  odd  now.  I  had  a  great  number  of  partners. 
I  danced  twice  with  Sir  John  Earle ;  he  was  so  good- 
looking,  and  danced  so  well.  He  used  to  live  at  Denham 
Hall,  but  I  don't  know  what  has  become  of  him.  The 
ball  lasted  until  the  morning,  and  I  remember  coming 
home  in  broad  daylight,  and  finding  it  so  exciting. 
That  was  the  evening  that  my  sister  first  met  Stephen's 
father,  and  Mamma  reproved  her  for  dancing  too  often 
with  him.  Mamma  was  always  very  particular  about 
our  conduct,  and  poor  Charlotte  was  always  rather 
wilful,  I  am  afraid.  Put  them  away,  Barbara  !  It  is 
time  to  get  ready  for  supper,  and  I  shall  never  wear 
them  again.  I  could  not  bear  to  throw  them  away.  Put 
them  away  quickly,  for  I  hear  Anne  calling.  She  never 
quite  approved  of  my  love  for  old  things.  Anne  never 
had  such  a  warm  nature  as  I  had.  She  is  naturally 
colder,  and  feels  things  less.  It  has  quite  cheered  me 
to  remember  old  days.  Life  is  so  different  now.  Yes, 
Anne,  yes !     I  am  coming." 

To  Miss  Margaret's  great  delight,  the  luck  was  with 
her  that  evening,  and  her  Patience  "came  out"  without 
any  recourse  to  the  changing  of  cards,  which  "could 
not  be  called  cheating,"  and  she  retired  to  bed  early, 
as  was  her  habit,  in  quite  a  cheerful  frame  of  mind. 
Having  seen  her  settled  for  the  night,  Barbara  was  just 
descending  the  stairs  when  she  heard  a  knock  on  the 
front  door,  and  Miss  Anne  peeped  out  of  the  parlour 
with  a  frightened  face. 

"Who  can  it  be,  Barbara?"  she  whispered.  "You 
had  better  not  open  the  door." 

The  knocking  was  repeated  more  insistently  as  she 
spoke. 


'BETTER,    NANCY,    BETTER!*  285 

"Open  quickly,  for  the  love  of  God,"  said  a  voice  in 
a  strong  Irish  brogue,  "  'tis  a  letter  for  the  lady." 

"It's  all  right,  Miss  Anne,"  said  Barbara,  soothingly. 
"  It  is  some  one  with  a  letter.  You  go  inside  and  I  will 
open  the  door." 

"A  letter  at  this  time  of  night?" 

It  was  evident  that  the  messenger  was  impatient,  and 
Barbara  hastily  drew  back  the  bolts,  and  saw  a  man 
standing  there  whom  she  recognized  at  once  as  Major 
Vasey's  servant. 

"  'Tis  from  Mr.  Poole,"  he  said,  pushing  a  note  into 
her  hand.  "Oh,  hurry,  miss,  now,  for  the  love  of  God  ! 
for  there's  no  time  to  lose." 

It  was  blowing  hard,  and  the  lamp  in  the  little  hall 
flared  high  with  the  draught. 

"I'm  to  wait  for  her,"  he  continued.  "Tell  her  to  be 
quick.     It's  dying  he  is — tell  her  to  be  quick." 

Miss  Anne  was  standing  in  the  parlour  with  her  hands 
clasped  over  her  heart. 

"It  is  from  Mr.  Poole.  I  am  afraid  Major  Vasey  is 
ill,"  said  the  girl  gently. 

Miss  Anne  essayed  to  open  the  letter,  but  her  trem- 
bling hands  refused  to  obey  her.  Barbara  took  it  from 
her  and  read  it  aloud.     It  was  quite  short. 

"Jim  is  ill.  He  wants  you.  O'Hara  will  bring  you. 
You  must  lose  no  time.     H.  P." 

Miss  Anne  raised  an  anguished  face. 

"Jim  is  ill,"  she  repeated,  "he  wants  me — I  must  go  to 
him." 

The  last  words  were  almost  a  cry,  as  though  she 
feared  some  one  would  prevent  her. 

"Yes,  yes,  of  course  you  will  go — at  once.  Just  wait 
here  while  I  get  your  cloak  and  shoes." 

Miss  Margaret  could  not  be  left  in  an  empty  house, 
and  yet  it  was  impossible  to  let  Miss  Anne  go  alone 
in  her  weak,  nervous  state  on  such  a  sad  errand,  so 
Barbara  paused  at  the  door  on  her  way  upstairs. 

"Go  quickly,"  she  said  to  the  waiting  man,  "go  and 


286  A  DREAM  OF  BLUE  ROSES 

call  Mrs.  Dodge.  You  know  the  house.  It  is  the  first 
down  the  lane.    Tell  her  she  must  come  at  once." 

He  raised  his  hand  to  the  salute,  and  obeyed  her 
without  question. 

Miss  Anne  did  not  speak  again.  She  allowed  herself 
to  be  dressed,  making  the  necessary  movements  as 
though  she  were  in  a  dream,  and  then  clinging  to  the 
girl's  arm  she  walked  out  into  the  night.  It  was  blow- 
ing hard,  and  so  dark  that  they  could  hardly  see  the 
road  under  their  feet,  and  the  short  hundred  yards  they 
had  to  go  seemed  as  though  it  would  never  end.  The 
old  lady  stumbled  along,  her  breath  coming  short  and 
fast.  She  was  a  bad  walker  at  the  best  of  times,  and 
before  the  distance  was  half  accomplished  her  steps 
became  so  faltering  that  Barbara  told  the  man,  who  was 
walking  close  behind  them,  to  support  her  on  the  other 
side,  and  between  them  they  assisted  her  along.  When 
they  reached  Major  Vasey's  gate  they  could  see  Mr. 
Poole  standing  in  the  doorway  with  a  lamp  in  his  hand 
to  guide  them.  Miss  Anne  looked  at  him  as  though  to 
read  in  his  face  the  question  she  dared  not  ask. 

"I  am  glad  you  have  come,  Anne,"  he  said  quietly. 
"He  will  be  happier  now  you  have  come." 

"I  am  quite  ready.     Take  me  to  him." 

When  they  had  gone  O'Hara  motioned  to  the  girl  to 
enter  a  small  room  on  the  right  of  the  entry,  and  set  a 
chair  for  her.  It  was  a  small  low  apartment,  very 
simply,  one  might  say  barely,  furnished.  In  the  centre 
stood  a  square  deal  table,  innocent  of  any  cover,  and  on 
it  were  a  pewter  inkstand  and  a  few  books.  A  smaller 
table  against  the  wall  carried  a  tobacco  jar  and  a  col- 
lection of  pipes,  while  beside  the  empty  hearth  was  a 
rather  dilapidated  wicker  chair,  cushioned  in  faded 
cloth.  All  was  scrupulously  clean,  but  it  was  devoid  of 
comfort,  and  quite  lacking  in  those  almost  indefinable 
touches  which  betray  a  woman's  care. 

"I'd  best  be  making  a  bit  of  fire,"  muttered  the  man 
tonelessly,  and  he  left  her  in  search  of  material. 

Returning  almost  immediately  with  paper  and  sticks, 
he  knelt  down  and  placed  them  in   position,  struck  a 


'BETTER,   NANCY,   BETTER!*  267 

match  and  applied  it.  Then  he  remained  there,  watch- 
ing the  rising  flame  in  silence,  and  there  was  something 
so  grief-stricken  in  his  attitude  that  Barbara  felt  she 
must,  in  pity,  speak  to  him. 

"  Has  Major  Vasey  been  ill  long  ?  "  she  asked  gently. 

O'Hara  threw  up  his  hands  with  a  despairing  gesture. 

"Sure  but  yesterday  himself  was  as  well  as  you  or  I, 
but  yesterday  !  I  left  him  last  night  sitting  in  his  chair 
with  nought  to  trouble  him,  and  'twas  this  morning  that 
I  found  him  lyin'  at  the  foot  of  the  stairs,  all  broken, 
and  with  never  a  word  to  say.  'Twas  myself  picked 
him  up  and  laid  him  on  his  bed,  and  started  young  Tom 
off  hot  foot  for  the  doctor,  and  'twas  hours  before  you 
could  find  a  gleam  of  life  in  him.  When  the  doctor 
came  he  stayed  a  matter  of  an  hour,  but  'twas  little  he 
could  do.  He  sent  a  bottle  of  medicine,  and  this  even- 
ing he  came  again,  but  he  just  shook  his  head.  Eh  !  the 
poor  Major.  'Tis  his  constitution  that's  killin'  him, 
for  he  hasn't  got  one.  Sure  that  was  what  the  doctor 
said!"  Then  he  rose  to  his  feet.  "Never  man  had  a 
better  master  nor  a  better  friend  than  the  Major's  been 
to  me,  and  it's  a  bitter  day  that  sees  him  go — with  the 
simple  kindly  heart  of  him  that  never  harmed  a  fly  ! 
'Twas  himself  that  found  me  with  me  stripes  and  me 
character  gone,  an'  with  never  a  friend  in  the  wide  world, 
and  took  me  on  when  never  a  soul  had  a  good  word  for 
me,  and  I  won't  be  saying  that  I  was  deservin'  one. 
I've  been  with  him  ever  since,  and  oh  !  whatever  I'll  be 
doin'  without  the  Major  I'll  never  know  at  all ! 

"I  won't  say  as  we  didn't  have  words,"  he  continued, 
after  a  short  pause,  "now  and  again.  There  was  times 
when  he  wasn't  himself,  and  I'd  be  skeered  he'd  be  after 
tormentin'  the  ladies  when  the  drink  was  in  him,  and 
he'd  a  fancy  for  stravaguing  around  at  night.  'Twasn't 
always  easy  to  get  him  to  come  home — but  what  of  that  ? 
Drunk  or  sober  he  was  the  kindest  soul  that  ever  tipped 
a  glass  !  Hark  now  !  What  was  that  ?  " 
Mr.  Poole  came  slowly  down  the  stairs. 
"Go  and  stand  up  on  the  landing,  O'Hara,"  he  said, 
"so  as  to  be  at  hand  if  you're  needed." 


288  A  DREAM  OF  BLUE  ROSES 

O'Hara  drew  himself  up  stiffly,  saluted  and  obeyed. 

The  old  clergyman  sank  wearily  into  the  wicker  chair, 
and  passed  a  handkerchief  across  his  forehead. 

"1  have  left  them  alone  for  a  while,"  he  said  sadly. 
"It  will  not  be  for  long,  and  he  is  quite  quiet." 

"Can  nothing  be  done?" 

He  shook  his  head. 

"There  are  internal  injuries,  and  he  has  no  strength. 
Poor  old  Jim.  Poor,  poor  Anne.  After  all  these  years 
that  this  should  be  the  end."  He  spoke  as  if  voicing  his 
thoughts.  After  a  moment  he  continued,  "  Perhaps  you 
do  not  know  that  they  were  engaged  to  be  married  many 
years  ago.  It  was  rather  a  hopeless  engagement  from 
the  first,  for  he  had  very  little  money  to  keep  a  wife. 
He  went  abroad  with  his  regiment,  and  was  away  from 
home  for  a  long  time.  Then  he  came  back,  and  all  pre- 
parations were  made  for  the  wedding,  but  it  never  took 
place,  for  the  very  day  before  he  came  to  the  house  and 
made  a  dreadful  scene.  You  can  guess  the  cause. 
Miss  Anne's  father  turned  him  out,  and  forbade  him 
to  return.  The  engagement  was  broken  off — things 
went  from  bad  to  worse — at  last  he  had  to  send  in 
his  papers  and  we  heard  nothing  of  him  for  several 
years.  Then  he  turned  up  again.  Mr.  Leigh  was  dead, 
and  Miss  Anne  agreed  that  she  would  marry  him  if  he 
could  keep  sober  for  a  year ;  and  so  it  has  gone  on — he 
was  always  going  to  be  better  soon.  It  is  a  sad  story. 
Poor  Jim  !  We  were  boys  together,  and  he — well,  he 
was  always  weak,  and  dear  Anne  was  never  a  strong 
woman.  Who  knows,  if  she  had  been  stronger  she 
might  have  done  something  for  him,  but  she  was  too 
gentle.  There  are  some  men  who  never  seem  to  have 
what  I  call  a  proper  outfit  for  life  from  the  start.  They 
can't  take  a  real  hold  on  themselves,  and  Jim  was  one 
of  these.  Everybody  liked  him — he  never  had  an  enemy 
but  himself." 

He  ceased  speaking,  and  was  leaning  back  with  his 
eyes  half  closed.  Barbara  sat  perfectly  still,  hoping  that 
perhaps  he  could  rest,  for  he  looked  very  exhausted,  but 
the  next  moment  a  cry  rang  through  the  stillness  of  the 


*  BETTER,   NANCY,   BETTER!'  289 

little  house.  Barbara  was  up  the  stairs  almost  before  the 
old  man  had  risen.  The  door  of  the  sick-room  was 
open,  and  as  she  entered  she  saw  O'Hara  lay  the  Major 
back  upon  his  pillow,  and  heard  him  speak  a  reassuring 
word.  Miss  Anne  was  standing  by  the  bed,  and  the 
dying  man's  face  was  not  more  ashen  than  her  own. 
Barbara  went  to  her  side  and  put  an  arm  round  her,  and 
the  old  lady  leaned  on  her  as  if  thankful  for  her  support. 
And  so  they  waited.  The  Major's  eyes  were  closed,  he 
hardly  seemed  to  breathe,  but  his  lips  moved  incessantly 
as  though  forming  inaudible  words.  There  was  no 
sound  in  the  little  room,  but  outside  the  rain  fell  heavily, 
mournfully,  and  the  wind  tore  at  the  lattice. 

Suddenly  the  Major  opened  his  eyes. 

"Damn  you,  O'Hara!  Scotch  !  "  he  said,  quite  dis- 
tinctly, and  O'Hara,  standing  motionless  to  attention  at 
the  head  of  the  bed,  answered,  "Yes,  sor  !  "  with  military 
precision. 

A  shudder  ran  through  Miss  Anne's  whole  frame,  and 
Barbara  held  her  close.  Then  again  silence  in  the  room, 
and  outside  the  moaning  of  the  storm. 

How  long  they  waited  Barbara  did  not  know.  Time 
seemed  a  thing  unknown.  Ages  were  passing  with 
every  second,  with  every  faint  breath  of  the  dying  man. 
Gradually  a  shadow^  crept  over  his  features — very 
gradually — the  shadow  of  the  great  mystery  of  death. 
Miss  Anne  never  took  her  eyes  from  his  face. 

Then  Mr.  Poole's  voice  was  heard — very  low  and 
charged  with  sorrow  and  certain  hope — reciting  the 
prayer  for  the  dying — 

"Oh,  Father  of  mercies,  and  God  of  all  comfort,  our 
only  help  in  time  of  need  .  .  ." 

If  the  Major  heard  it  the  girl  could  not  tell,  but  soon 
after  Mr.  Poole  had  ceased  he  opened  his  eyes  again. 

"Nancy  !  " 

Miss  Anne  stooped  forward  and  laid  her  hand  on 
his. 

"Jim!" 

"  I  have  tried,  Nancy,  I  have  tried  !  " 

"I  know,  Jim,  I  know." 
u 


290  A  DREAM   OF  BLUE  ROSES 

He  looked  into  her  eyes,  but  the  Hght  was  dim  and 
his  sight  was  faiHng  fast. 

"  I  can't  see  you,"  he  whispered. 

For  answer  Miss  Anne  bent  down  and  kissed  him  on 
the  brow. 

For  a  while  he  lay  so  still  that  it  might  have  been  the 
end,  but  even  as  they  watched  they  saw  a  little  tender 
smile  light  up  his  face — a  tender,  flickering  smile — and 
his  lips  moved. 

"  Better,  Nancy,  better !  "  he  said,  and  then  turned  a 
little  over  on  his  pillow  like  a  tired  child  and  fell  asleep. 


CHAPTER   XXIX 

A    FOREIGN   ENVELOPE 

"Oh  !  love,  love,  love  ! 
Love  is  like  a  dizziness, 
It  winna  let  a  poor  body 
Gang  about  his  biziness." 


Hogg. 


Stephen  Grant  walked  into  his  sitting-room,  and  after 
giving  his  man  a  curt  order  as  to  the  disposal  of  his 
luggage,  threw  himself  into  his  arm-chair,  with  a  sigh 
of  relief. 

If  the  truth  must  be  told,  Stephen  was  not  in  a  very 
good  humour.  His  fishing  expedition  had  not  been  an 
unqualified  success.  The  sport  had  been  excellent,  the 
weather  all  that  could  be  desired,  but  in  spite  of  this 
he  had  been  thoroughly  bored,  for  the  first  time  in  his 
life. 

He  had  been  wont  to  declare  that  he  asked  no  better 
thing  of  the  gods  than  solitude,  with  his  rod  and  line 
on  a  good  piece  of  water  when  fish  were  rising,  but  for 
some  inexplicable  reason  his  favourite  occupation  had 
lost  its  savour,  and  solitude  its  charm. 

He  had  started  by  himself,  but  had  shortly  afterwards 
fallen  in  with  some  men  he  knew,  and,  thinking  that 
their  company  might  prove  a  cure  for  his  discontent,  he 
had  joined  forces  with  them.  They  were  pleasant, 
cheery  fellows,  and,  for  a  while,  Stephen  told  himself 
that  he  felt  better;  he  had  probably  been  a  bit  seedy — 
liver  out  of  sorts,  that  would  account  for  it— but  the 
improvement  did  not  last,  and  in  a  few  days  he  was 
wishing  them  miles  away. 

One  of  the  men — Thompson,  by  name — he  had  known 
for  a  long  time ;  he  had  travelled  with  him  once  or  twice, 
u  2  291 


292  A  DREAM   OF  BLUE   ROSES 

and  had  always  found  him  a  congenial  companion,  but 
now  there  was  no  doubt  that  Thompson  had  changed, 
and  not  for  the  better.  He  had  lately  become  engaged 
to  be  married,  and  no  doubt  it  was  this  that  made  him 
rather  a  bore. 

It  has  frequently  been  said  that  love  is  a  disease,  and 
it  has  this  in  common  with  other  physical  maladies, 
namely,  that  those  sufferers  who  have  lately  passed 
through  the  acute  stages  of  the  complaint  are  usually 
not  averse  to  talking  about  it.  It  seems  to  relieve  their 
minds  to  go  into  details,  and  they  even  take  a  certain 
pride  in  their  scars.  Thompson,  who  was  a  simple, 
friendly  soul,  some  years  younger  than  Stephen,  was 
only  too  glad  to  have  some  one  to  talk  to.  He  was 
extremely  happy,  and  saw  no  reason  to  keep  his  feelings 
to  himself. 

He  would  enlarge  at  length  on  the  great  change  that 
had  come  into  his  life,  on  the  difference  it  made  having 
some  one  to  care  for — "Who  cared  for  you,  don't  you 
know,"  and  so  on.     He  even  exhibited  a  photograph  of 

the  young  lady  of  his  affections,  and  Stephen  had  to 

agree  that  if  she  was  not  charming,  well,  her  looks  belied 

her. 

One  day,  when  the  young  man  had  been  talking  at 

great  length  in  the  same  strain,  Stephen,  who  had  been 

sitting  listening  without  any  apparent  interest,  looked 

up  and  asked  suddenly — 

"That's  all  very  well,  but  how  do  you  know  you  can 

trust  her  ?  " 

"Trust  her?"  repeated  Thompson  in  astonishment; 

"of  course  I  can  trust  her  !  " 

"Yes!  but   how   do  you   know?"  returned  Stephen 

doggedly.     "How  do  you  know  that  she  isn't  marrying 

you  for  some  reason  of  her  own,  or  for  your  money  ? 

How  do  you  know  she  really  cares  for  you,  and  if  she 

does,  how  do  you  know  that  she  will  still  care  for  you 

in  ten  years'  time  ?  " 

Thompson  hesitated  for  a  moment.     It  was  not  easy 

to  find  words  to  fix  his  meaning.     Then  he  said  simply — 
"I  can't  explain.     But  if  you  really  care  for  any  one, 


A   FOREIGN   ENVELOPE  298 

you  must  trust.     Love  and  trust  are  the  same  thing,  I 
suppose." 

"Many  people  have  been  under  the  impression  that 
they  were  in  love,  and  have  found  themselves  disas- 
trously mistaken,"  was  Stephen's  next  remark. 

"I  dare  say.  But,  hang  it  all,  man!  In  every  big 
thing  you've  got  to  carry  your  risks.  And  this  is  a  big 
thing.     Just  the  biggest  thing  of  all." 

Stephen  picked  up  a  pebble  and  flung  it  at  a  floating 
log.  They  were  sitting  by  the  river  eating  their  lunch 
at  the  time. 

"Well,  I  wish  you  luck,  old  man  !  "  he  said  lightly. 
"You  know  that.  But  I  wonder  how  you'll  like  being 
tied  at  home  instead  of  having  no  one  to  consider,  and 
being  free  to  dash  ofif  wherever  the  fancy  takes  you  ?  " 

"I  shan't  mind  being  tied  at  home,  so  long  as  she 
is  there.  Half  the  men  who  wander  do  it  because  there 
is  no  one  to  sit  still  with  them." 

"I  don't  agree  with  you.  They  wander  because  they 
love  it.  Because  they  love  the  open  road  and  the  free- 
dom of  it.  Look  round  you  now  !  Not  much  catch  to' 
change  this  for  a  tennis  ■court  and  a  row  of  sweet-peas  !  " 

Thompson  laughed. 

"  No  one  asked  you  to  !  Can  you  never  take  the  road 
again  after  you  are  married  ?  I  shall,  I  know,  and  I 
shan't  take  it  alone  either." 

"I  prefer  it  alone." 

"But  you'll  tire  of  it.  You'll  want  to  come  home  at 
last.  Not  necessarily  to  a  tennis  court  and  a  row  of 
sweet-peas,  but  to  a  home  with  a  woman  in  it.  You'll 
tire  of  being  alone."  He  looked  at  him  keenly  for  a 
minute.     "Why,  man  !  you're  tired  of  it  now  !  " 

"Rot!" 

"You  are!  You  mayn't  know  it  yourself,  but  I  can 
see  you're  not  half  so  keen  as  you  used  to  be.  Three 
years  ago  in  the  Rockies  you  didn't  wave  your  hands 
and  draw  attention  to  the  scenery.  You  just  looked  and 
let  it  sink  into  your  bones  w'ithout  talking  about  it.  It 
is  just  because  you  are  trying  to  persuade  yourself  that 
it  means  everything  to  you,  just  as  it  used  to,  that  you 


294  A  DREAM   OF  BLUE   ROSES 

try  and  insist  upon  it.  And  three  years  ago  you  didn't 
sit  down  with  your  hands  in  front  of  you,  or  throw 
pebbles  into  the  water,  because  you  were  too  busy  think- 
ing to  get  a  move  on  you.  No,  no,  you  were  so  keen 
about  the  life  then,  that  you  didn't  spare  a  moment.  If 
you  sat  still  you  went  to  sleep,  you  didn't  sit  and  think, 
and  then  wonder  what  in  the  world  you  were  thinking 
about." 

"  Rot !  "  said  Stephen  again,  and  although  he  attached 
no  importance  whatever  to  Thompson's  opinion  of  his 
mental  condition,  yet  the  words  remained  in  his  memory. 

He  thought  of  them  now,  as  he  looked  round  his 
comfortable  room.  This  was  all  right!  Who  wanted 
anything  better  than  this?  He  had  simply  got  a  restless 
fit  on,  that  was  all.  He  sincerely  hoped  he  wasn't  really 
losing  his  content,  his  love  of  nature,  and  his  interest 
in  life.  Of  course,  he  was  getting  older,  and  he  pre- 
sumed that  as  one  got  older,  one  didn't  enter  into  things 
with  the  same  zest  as  before.  But  hang  it  all,  he  was 
rather  young  to  begin  to  lose  grip.  It  was  rather  a 
dreary  outlook,  if  he  was  going  to  feel  hipped  and  dis- 
contented for  the  rest  of  his  natural  life.  It  was  time 
he  started  another  job,  and  stuck  to  it  with  a  purpose. 
Idleness  was  probably  at  the  root  of  the  matter,  and  yet, 
how  he  had  enjoyed  life  until  a  little  while  ago  !  He 
had  been  the  keenest  man  alive. 

A  home  with  a  woman  in  it !  It  sounded  all  right ; 
but  how  the  devil  was  one  to  be  sure  of  the  woman  ? 
he  asked  himself  irritably.  Women  never  knew  their 
minds  for  ten  minutes  together.  He  ran  through  a  list 
of  his  acquaintances — half  of  them  had  reached  the  stage 
of  leisured  repentance,  some  were  making  the  best  of  a 
bad  job,  and  a  few,  a  very  few,  had  what  might  be  really 
called  a  home.  Dick,  for  instance.  Dick  was  a  lucky 
chap,  but  then  Mrs.  Dick  was  one  in  a  thousand.  A 
sweet,  courageous  woman,  with  a  heart  of  gold.  In  spite 
of  all  their  anxieties,  they  were  happy,  she  and  Dick, 
with  the  children  and  each  other,  in  spite  of  shortness 
of  money,  and  ill-health,  and  sundry  other  worries, 
which  were  proverbially  supposed  to  drive  love  out  of 
the  window. 


A   FOREIGN  ENVELOPE  295 

And  then  his  thoughts  went  just  a  Httle  farther,  to 
the  "Porch  Cottage,"  and  some  one  hehadheardsinging 
through  the  kitchen  window,  but  they  pulled  up  with  a 
jerk  when  they  came  to  Flora  Moultrie. 

Everything  had  been  happy  and  jolly  until  Flora 
came  and  upset  it !  Flora  was  a  good  sort  in  many 
ways,  but  there  was  not  the  smallest  doubt  she  could  be 
vulgar  at  times.  There  was  nothing  so  vulgar  as  read- 
ing mischief  into  the  simplest  actions.  Good  heavens  ! 
Fancy  being  married  to  a  woman  like  Flora !  He 
was  sorry  for  her,  because  Moultrie  as  a  husband  un- 
doubtedly left  a  good  deal  to  be  desired,  but,  honestly, 
he  wasn't  sure  that  Flora  had  not  got  the  best  of  the 
bargain. 

And  yet  she  wasn't  a  stupid  woman,  Flora,  not  by 
any  means,  she  could  be  interesting  and  amusing 
enough,  when  she  chose.  But  she  was  selfish.  That 
was  at  the  bottom  of  it.  All  women,  with  the  exception 
of  Mrs.  Dick,  were  selfish.  They  had  their  own  ends  in 
view,  and  they  kept  on  hammering  until  they  got  them. 
That  was  just  it.  He  had  not  the  smallest  intention  of 
putting  himself  in  such  a  position  that  a  woman  could 
hammer  him.  If  you  were  married,  there  was  no  escape. 
And  yet — a  home  with  a  woman  in  it ! 

He  got  out  of  his  chair  and  filled  a  pipe,  and  looked 
round  his  room  again.  It  was  getting  dark,  and  he 
walked  to  the  wall  and  switched  on  the  light.  A  very 
comfortable  room,  he  told  himself ;  he  had  never  seen 
any  in  London  he  liked  better,  and  yet  it  looked  wrong, 
somehow.  Empty,  that  was  it.  He  had  been  away,  and 
there  were  no  papers  or  books  lying  about,  it  didn't  look 
as  if  it  had  been  lived  in  ;  it  would  be  better  in  a  day 
or  two.  He  wandered  round,  touching  an  ornament 
here  and  there,  setting  a  picture  straight  on  the  wall, 
pushing  a  chair  into  a  different  position.  He  had  been 
rather  pleased  with  his  pied-a-terre  and  his  possessions, 
they  usually  gave  him  a  kind  of  friendly  feeling  when 
he  returned  after  absence,  they  conjured  up  memories; 
here  he  had  bought  this,  there  he  had  bought  that,  but 

now A  pile  of  letters  and  papers  on  a  table  met 

his  eye,  and  he  turned  them  over  idly.     There  were  a 


296  A  DREAM  OF  BLUE  ROSES 

quantity  of  circulars,  and  these  he  threw  to  one  side 
without  opening,  and  then,  feeling  that  they  were  a 
hideous  nuisance,  but  must  be  attended  to  sooner  or 
later,  he  collected  the  letters  and  returned  with  them  to 
his  arm-chair. 

The  usual  polite  intimation  that  a  gentleman  would 
be  only  too  happy  to  advance  him  any  sum  of  money  on 
his  note  of  hand,  without  security — he  tore  it  through 
angrily.  A  letter  from  a  man  asking  him  to  join  him 
for  a  fortnight  in  the  north  of  Scotland — by  Jove !  he'd 
go,  there  was  nothing  to  keep  him  in  London.  Two 
invitations  for  dinner — thank  Heaven  he  needn't  accept 
those,  if  he  was  going  to  Scotland  he  was  spared  dinner- 
parties. A  begging  letter  from  a  clergyman  in  some 
God-forsaken  hole  he  had  never  heard  of,  saying  that 
having  just  completed  the  restoration  of  his  church,  he 
was  appealing  to  the  generosity  of  others  to  pay  the  bill, 
or  something  to  that  effect  couched  in  smoother  lan- 
guage. What  a  lot  of  rubbish  !  And  then  he  picked  up 
the  next  envelope  and  turned  it  this  way  and  that  between 
his  fingers.  It  was  of  thin,  foreign  paper,  and  was 
addressed  in  a  fine,  foreign-looking  writing,  but  it  bore 
an  English  penny  stamp.  He  amused  himself  by  trying 
to  decipher  the  postmark,  but  it  was  so  smudged  that 
he  gave  up  the  attempt  after  a  minute  or  two,  and  tore 
it  open.  He  glanced  at  it,  and  then,  springing  to  his 
feet,  he  read  it  carefully  through — 

"  Monsieur, 

"  I  regret  to  be  obliged  to  inform  you  that  Madame 
your  Aunt  is  seriously  unwell.  She  contracted  a  severe 
chill  about  three  weeks  ago,  but  the  doctor  did  not  con- 
sider that  there  was  cause  for  alarm  until  last  night, 
when  she  became  rapidly  worse.  I  grieve  to  say  that 
her  condition  is  now  very  grave,  although  the  doctor 
does  not  give  up  hope  of  her  recovery.  Miss  Margaret 
is  in  her  usual  health. 

"Assuring  Monsieur  of  my  sentiments  the  most  dis- 
tinguished, 

"Barbara  Claudia  Vincent," 


A   FOREIGN  ENVELOPE  297 

And  across  the  bottom  of  the  page  were  four  words, 
evidently  added  in  a  great  hurry,  "I  am  so  anxious." 

Madame  your  aunt !  It  was  Aunt  Anne.  Poor  Aunt 
Anne!  Then  he  looked  at  the  date.  Three  days  ago? 
Impossible.  But,  yes,  there  was  a  calendar  on  the 
mantelpiece.  Three  days  ago  !  What  might  not  have 
happened  in  three  days  ? 

Whatever  his  previous  demeanour,  there  was  no  lack 
of  energy  about  Stephen  now,  as  he  strode  across  the 
floor  to  the  telephone,  calling  to  his  man  as  he  went. 
And  in  front  of  his  eyes  floated  four  words,  "I  am  so 
anxious !  "  There  was  something  about  them  that 
sounded  like  a  cry.  Barbara  Claudia  Vincent  assured 
him  of  her  sentiments  the  most  distinguished  in  the 
manner  of  the  most  correct  French  letter-writer,  but 
added  a  little  pitiful  sentence  which  appealed  to  him  for 
help.  Aunt  Anne  was  ill  in  the  cottage  at  Fiddler's 
Green,  some  miles  from  a  doctor,  and  no  means  of 
communication  with  the  town,  and  alone,  with  the  excep- 
tion of  Aunt  Margaret,  who  was  useless,  and  worse  than 
useless.  There  was  no  one  to  depend  on,  no  one  to  turn 
to,  and  the  entire  responsibility  rested  on  the  shoulders 
of  a  girl  who  was  "so  anxious." 

Calmly  and  coolly  he  gave  his  orders  and  made  his 
preparations,  but  all  the  while  some  new  and  hitherto 
unexperienced  sensation  seemed  to  be  stirring  in  his 
heart. 

At  about  eleven  o'clock  on  the  same  evening  the  rain 
was  falling  in  torrents  at  Fiddler's  Green,  the  wind  tore 
in  angry  gusts,  roaring  round  the  corners  like  a  sensate 
fiend.  Barbara,  toiling  along  on  her  bicycle,  battled 
against  the  elements,  her  eyes  fixed  on  the  little  streak 
of  light  upon  the  road  before  her.  Her  hat  had  blown 
away,  her  thin  skirt,  heavy  with  moisture,  clung  round 
her  slight  form,  impeding  her  movements;  she  was 
drenched  to  the  skin,  and  breathless  with  fatigue,  but 
bodily  discomfort  was  quite  unheeded.  Miss  Anne,  her 
dear,  kind  Miss  Anne,  was  dying,  and  her  onlv  con- 
sideration, her  onlv  fear,  was  lest  she  should  arrive  too 
late. 


298  A  DREAM   OF   BLUE   ROSES 

With  grim  determination  she  pushed  on,  across  the 
Green  and  along  the  lane,  until  suddenly  she  heard  the 
sound  of  wheels  behind  her.  Springing  to  the  ground 
she  drew  close  to  the  hedge,  and  as  she  did  so,  a  voice 
hailed  her  from  the  darkness, 

"  Is  that  you,  Miss  Vincent  ?  " 

"Yes.     Don't  wait.     Go  straight  on." 

"Let  me  give  you  a  lift.  I  came  along  directly  I  got 
your  message,  and  hoped  to  overtake  you." 

"No,  no,"  she  cried.  "Don't  wait  for  me.  It  is  only 
a  little  way  now.  I  shall  be  in  directly.  Please  lose  no 
time." 

The  doctor  drove  on,  and  Barbara,  too  tired  now  to 
remount,  walked  slowly  forward,  wheeling  her  machine. 
Her  loosened,  dripping  hair  whipped  across  her  face,  she 
could  not  spare  a  hand  to  brush  it  away,  as  with  head 
down  she  struggled  against  the  gale.  Miss  Anne,  dear 
Miss  Anne.  But  now  the  doctor  had  come,  surely  he 
could  do  something ! 

Ah  !  here  was  the  gate  at  last !  With  a  sigh  of  thank- 
fulness that  she  had  reached  the  end  of  her  journey,  she 
opened  it,  and,  still  pushing  her  bicycle,  passed  up  the 
path.  The  door  was  open,  and  as  she  reached  it,  Mrs. 
Dodge  came  down  the  stairs. 

"How  is  she?"  gasped  the  girl. 

"Bad,  miss,  but  better  than  when  you  left.  I  mustn't 
stop,  I  ran  down  to  fetch  something." 

Barbara  leaned  against  the  porch  and  closed  her  eyes. 
Her  knees  were  shaking,  so  that  she  could  hardly  stand. 
Miss  Anne  was  still  alive.  "Bad,  but  better  than  when 
you  left."  Just  a  moment's  rest,  and  then  she  must  go 
and  help. 

And  then  for  the  second  time  that  night  came  a  voice 
through  the  darkness. 

"  Is  that  you.  Miss  Vincent  ?  " 

She  roused  herself  with  a  start. 

"Oh!"  she  cried,  "is  it " 

"It  is  Stephen  Grant,"  was  the  reply.     "How  is- 


"Bad,  but  better  than  when  I  left,"  repeated  the  girl 
mechanically. 


A   FOREIGN  ENVELOPE  299 

"I  have  brought  a  nurse  with  me,"  he  continued.  "I 
thought  perhaps  she  would  be  a  help." 

"The  doctor  is  here  now;  will  you  come  in?" 

She  led  the  way  into  the  kitchen. 

"  If  you  will  wait,  I  will  go  and  see " 

Then  Stephen  saw  her  face. 

"But  you?"  he  said  quickly.  "What  have  you  been 
doing?" 

"I  have  only  just  come  in." 

"Come  in  ?     What  do  you  mean  ?" 

"I  went  to  St.  Ethel's  to  fetch  the  doctor." 

Before  he  could  reply,  they  heard  a  step  on  the  stairs, 
and  the  doctor  himself  entered. 

"Ah,"  he  said,  "I  ran  down  to  see  what  you  were 
doing  !  Up  you  go  this  minute  and  change  every  shred 
on  you.  Mr.  Grant,  I  am  glad  you  have  come.  Miss 
Leigh  has  rallied  for  the  moment,  but  I  am  thankful  I 
came.  She  is  deplorably  weak,  but  if  we  can  get  her 
through  the  night,  I  shall  not  give  up  hope,  by  any 
means.  Miss  Vincent,  will  you  go.  We  cannot  afford 
to  have  you  ill.  I  see  a  nurse  in  the  hall.  It  was  good 
of  you  to  bring  her,  Mr.  Grant,  and  now  there  will  be 
no  more  for  you  to  do,  young  lady,  and  it's  time  you 
thought  of  yourself.  You  haven't  been  to  bed  for  three 
nights.     Go,  at  once,  please." 

He  spoke  kindly  and  decidedly,  and  Barbara  went, 
without  a  word.  She  came  down  again  about  an  hour 
later  to  find  Stephen  Grant  sitting  on  the  settle  beside 
the  fire-place. 

"The  doctor  has  just  gone,"  she  said,  "and  Miss  Anne 
is  quite  quiet." 

"I  know,"  he  replied,  "I  saw  him  before  he  went. 
He  is  coming  early  in  the  morning.  I  hoped  you  had 
gone  to  bed.  The  nurse  is  quite  efficient,  and  there  is 
nothing  more  for  vou  to  do." 

"What  did  the  doctor  say?" 

"Nothing  more.  If  she  lives  through  the  night,  he 
thinks  we  may  expect  a  little  improvement  towards 
morning." 

She  did  not   reply,  but  walking  to  the  stove,  took 


800  A  DREAM  OF  BLUE  ROSES 

up  the  kettle  and  moved  away  to  refill  it  in  the 
scullery. 

"Give  that  to  me,"  said  Grant  quietly.  "You  must 
not  do  anything^  more.     Won't  you  go  to  bed?" 

She  listened  for  a  second  attentively,  as  though  she 
heard  something  from  the  room  above,  and  the  next 
minute  she  had  flown  up  the  stairs,  only  to  return  almost 
immediately. 

"It  was  nothing,"  she  explained.  "Only  Mrs.  Dodge. 
She  is  going  to  lie  down  in  my  room." 

"Won't  you  go  to  bed  yourself?" 

"Oh  no,"  she  cried,  "I  couldn't.  Please  do  not  ask 
me  to.  I  could  not  rest.  Something  might  be  wanted. 
I  should  like  to  stav  with  her,  but  the  nurse  thinks  it 
better  that  I  should 'not." 

"  I  expect  she  is  right.  I  am  sure  she  is  very  capable, 
and  you  are  worn  out.     You  ought  to  get  some  rest." 

"I  couldn't  sleep,"  she  repeated. 

"Very  well,  then,  sit  down  here  in  this  corner,  and 
promise  you  won't  keep  springing  up  every  time  you 
hear  a  sound.  I  will  go  up  myself  from  time  to  time, 
and  tell  you  how  things  are  going  on.  Now,  I  am 
going  to  boil  the  kettle  and  make  you  some  tea.  You 
are  not  to  talk  until  you  have  had  it." 

Quickly  and  deftly  he  set  about  his  task,  filling  the 
kettle  afresh,  and  setting  it  on  the  stove,  and  fetching  the 
necessary  paraphernalia.  Stephen  Grant  was  not  an  old 
campaigner  for  nothing — and  Barbara  sat  and  watched 
him.  It  was  comfort  untold  to  have  some  one  to  depend 
on,  and  he  was  so  strong,  and  kind  and  practical.  Surely 
now  that  he  had  come,  all  would  be  well ! 

It  was  not  long  before  he  was  standing  beside  her 
with  a  cup  in  his  hands. 

"Drink  this,"  he  said,  "it  will  pull  you  together." 

"  I  really  do  not  want  it,"  she  said  piteously. 

"Never  mind  that,  drink  it  up," 

He  stood  waiting  until  the  last  drop  had  disappeared, 
and  then  he  went  into  the  parlour  and  returned  with  a 
cushion,  which  he  placed  behind  her  head. 

"There!  Now  try  and  rest  a  little.  I  am  going  to 
smoke  a  pipe,  if  you  don't  mind," 


A   FOREIGN  ENVELOPE  301 

He  drew  up  a  chair  and  seated  himself  on  the  other 
side  of  the  hearth,  and  so  they  kept  vigil,  in  silence,  for 
the  most  part,  for  he  could  see  that  the  girl's  every  nerve 
was  strained  to  catch  the  slightest  sound  from  the  sick- 
room, and  now  and  again,  true  to  his  word,  he  would 
steal  softly  upstairs  and  return  with  the  same  message, 
"No  change." 

At  last,  thinking  that  speaking  might  be  a  relief  to  the 
sadness  of  her  thoughts,  he  began  to  talk,  and  gradually 
he  drew  from  her  the  details  of  Miss  Anne's  illness  and 
its  cause.  How,  after  returning  from  Major  V^asey's 
house  on  the  night  of  his  death,  the  old  lady  had  col- 
lapsed so  utterly  that  it  was  some  time  before  she  could 
be  restored  to  consciousness,  and  that  although  she  had 
apparently  recovered  a  little  later,  her  illness  had 
developed  from  that  time. 

"And  then,  this  evening,  she  was  so  much  worse — I 
do  not  know  the  reason,  because  when  the  doctor  came 
this  morning  she  was  about  the  same  as  yesterday,  but 
she  seemed  to  be  dying,  and  I  had  to  leave  her.  There 
was  no  one  else  to  go  and  fetch  him.  Oh  !  I  feared  so 
greatly  that  I  should  return  too  late." 

"  I  only  wish  I  had  known  sooner.  Of  course,  I  should 
have  come." 

"  Miss  Anne  asked  for  you  a  few  days  ago.  It  was  the 
day  on  which  I  wrote  to  you,  but  since  then  she  has 
hardly  spoken.  Oh,  Monsieur!  you  do  not  think  that 
she  will  die  ?  " 

"The  doctor  says  that  if  she  lives  through  the  night, 
we  may  expect  some  improvement  in  the  morning,"  he 
repeated  kindly.  "You  must  not  lose  heart  now.  You 
have  been  so  splendid.  You  have  grown  very  fond  of 
my  aunt,  haven't  you?  " 

"  I  could  not  help  loving  her,  she  is  so  gentle  and  so 
good,"  she  answered  simply.  "I  think  every  one  must 
love  Miss  Anne." 

They  fell  into  silence  again,  and  presently  Stephen  saw 
the  girl's  head  fall  back  against  the  cushion,  and  her  eyes 
close. 

The  coUarless  white  blouse  she  wore  left  bare  the 
slender  column  of  her  throat,  and  her  hair,  hardly  yet 


802  A  DREAM   OF   BLUE   ROSES 

dry  from  the  rain,  curled  itself  in  a  myriad  little  rings 
framing  her  wan  face  in  dusky  softness.  "  How  absurdly 
young  she  looked,"  he  thought,  "hardly  more  than  a 
child.  Much  too  young  to  be  far  away  from  her  friends, 
earning  her  living  among  strangers.  No  wonder  she 
was  tired  out,  poor  little  soul,  after  riding  nearly  ten 
miles  in  the  teeth  of  the  gale,  after  days  and  nights  of 
anxious  nursing.  She  was  really  fond  of  Miss  Anne 
— not  only  her  words,  but  her  actions  proved  it.  Surely 
if  truth  and  honesty  and  simplicity  of  purpose  were 
written  anywhere,  they  were  written  on  the  face  before 
him.  This  child  sought  nothing  in  return  for  her  devo- 
tion, it  was  given  in  whole-souled  affection.  There  was 
character,  too,  written  in  the  broad,  white  brow,  and 
strength  in  the  line  from  temple  to  chin.  This  was  no 
selfish,  empty-headed  girl,  who  would  not  know  her  own 
mind  for  ten  minutes  together,  but  a  woman  made  for 
love  and  the  sweetest  of  human  companionship." 

The  fire  fell  with  a  crash,  and  he  waited  with  bated 
breath  to  see  if  she  would  waken,  but  no.  She  changed 
her  position  very  slightly,  and  slept  on. 

Then,  as  he  watched,  she  sighed — just  a  long  breath 
of  utter  weariness,  quite  unconscious,  but  infinitely  sad, 
and  two  slow  tears  forced  themselves  from  under  her 
eyelids,  and  ran  slowly  down  her  cheeks.  And  over 
him  there  rushed  a  great  desire  to  gather  the  slight  form 
in  his  arms,  to  comfort  and  cherish  and  shield  her. 

"In  any  big  thing,  you've  got  to  carry  your  risks" 
— but  were  there  always  risks  in  this — "Just  the  biggest 
thing  of  all  "  ? 


CHAPTER    XXX 


THE   BIGGEST   THING 


"  Our  teachers  teach  that  one  and  one  makes  two  : 
Later  Love  rules  that  one  and  one  make  one." 

Christina  Rossetti. 

Gradually  the  cloud  which  rested  on  the  "  Porch 
Cottage"  lifted,  and  the  sun  shone  again.  Slowly  Miss 
Anne  regained  strength,  but  for  all  that  her  progress 
was  slow,  it  was  sure;  and  as  day  succeeded  day  Bar- 
bara's heart  grew  light,  and  past  anxieties  were  forgotten 
in  the  happy  present.  Stephen  Grant  came  daily,  and 
the  invalid  looked  forward  to  his  visits  with  the  keenest 
pleasure.  "You  are  not  going  away?"  she  would  ask 
pleadingly,  and  his  invariable  answer  set  her  mind  at 
rest. 

Stephen  had  not  the  smallest  wish  to  go  away.  His 
unaccountable  restlessness  had  vanished  as  suddenly  as 
it  had  appeared,  and  he  wanted  to  stay  where  he  was. 
He  wanted  to  stay  to  watch  a  little  lithe  figure  moving 
about  in  the  quaint,  low  rooms  and  along  the  garden 
paths.  What  matter  that  the  flowers  were  past,  and  that 
the  orchard  trees  stretched  bare,  cold  branches  to  meet  a 
winter  sky,  for  in  his  heart  something  was  stirring  that 
recked  nothing  of  times  or  seasons.  He  wanted  to  be 
at  hand  to  catch  the  echo  of  a  voice  singing  softly, 
waking  answering  chords,  new,  and  strange,  and  very 
sweet,  and  above  all  he  wanted  to  watch  the  soul  of  a 
woman  revealing  herself  in  a  thousand  different  ways. 
In  the  quick  changes  of  expression  that  flitted  across 
her  mobile  face,  at  one  moment  gay,  with  a  gleam  of 
mischief  in  her  great  grey  eyes;  the  next,  serious, 
unfathomable,  mysteriously  alluring.  In  the  cheerful 
patience  with  which  she  sought  to  distract  and  amuse 

303 


804  A  DREAM   OF  BLUE  ROSES 

Miss  Margaret,  who  depended  upon  her  for  everything 
in  Miss  Anne's  absence,  and  particularly  in  the  thought 
and  care  which  characterized  her  in  everything  con- 
nected with  the  sick-room. 

His  early  life  had  taught  him  to  distrust  impulse  as 
a  guide  to  action,  and  although,  when  necessary,  he 
could  decide  quickly  and  wisely,  and  had  the  courage 
of  his  own  opinions,  yet  in  the  present  matter  his  very 
earnestness,  his  great  desire  to  decide  rightly,  hampered 
him.  He  was  so  desperately  anxious  to  make  sure  !  So 
desperately  anxious  not  to  avoid  "carrying  his  risks," 
but  to  ascertain  as  far  as  possible  the  extent  of  those 
risks  at  the  outset. 

They  met  every  day,  and  although  they  had  little 
opportunity  for  any  conversation  beyond  the  affairs  of 
the  moment,  yet  the  interests  they  had  in  common,  and 
the  affection  they  shared  for  Miss  Anne,  had  drawn 
them  together.  Barbara  had  ceased  to  regard  him  as  a 
stranger,  and  would  consult  with  him  in  friendly  fashion 
over  any  question  that  arose,  asking  his  advice  as  if  it 
were  the  most  natural  thing  in  the  world  that  she  should 
follow  it. 

The  girl  herself  was  not  at  the  moment  inclined  to 
introspection.  If  she  had  been,  she  would  most  likely 
have  attributed  her  happiness  to  the  fact  of  Miss  Anne's 
recovery.  The  possibility  of  there  being  another  reason 
had  not  crossed  her  mind.  All  was  infinitely  well  with 
her  and  with  those  she  cared  for.  Was  not  that  all- 
sufficient  reason  for  joyousness? 

It  is  impossible  to  say  how  long  this  state  of  affairs 
might  have  continued,  if  it  had  not  been  for  an  untoward 
happening  which  tore  the  scales  with  lightning  sudden- 
ness from  two  pairs  of  eyes.  The  cause  was  primarily 
Tommy,  and  it  happened  in  this  wise. 

Stephen  had  been  at  the  "  Porch  Cottage  "  early  in  the 
afternoon,  and  had  then  departed,  announcing  his  inten- 
tion of  going  to  see  the  Arkwrights,  whose  period  of 
quarantine  was  drawing  to  a  close.  He  had  said  nothing 
of  returning  later  in  the  day,  and  no  one  expected  him. 

At  about  seven  o'clock,  Barbara,  having  some  message 


THE   BIGGEST  THING  305 

to  deliver  to  Mrs.  Dodge,  slipped  on  a  coat  and  walked 
down  to  that  worthy  woman's  dwelling.  She  stayed  for 
a  while  chatting,  for  Mrs.  Dodge  was  at  all  times  ready 
for  conversation,  and  inclined  to  resent  any  attempt  to 
curtail  her  remarks;  and  presently  Tommy,  wishful  to 
escape  the  hour  of  bedtime,  which  always  came  much 
too  soon  to  please  him,  strayed  out  through  the  doorway 
into  a  wonderland  of  darkness. 

His  going  was  quite  unheeded.  Mrs.  Dodge  was  too 
taken  up  with  expressing  her  opinion  on  the  various 
stages  of  Miss  Anne's  illness — a  subject  which  she  never 
wearied  of  discussing — and  it  chanced  that  Barbara  was 
standing  with  her  back  to  the  door. 

Suddenly  the  strident  hoot  of  a  motor  was  heard  in 
the  lane,  and  as  suddenly  Mrs.  Dodge  missed  her 
grandson. 

"A  motter-'orn ! "  she  screamed.  "Where's  the 
boy  ?  " 

Quick  as  thought  Barbara  realized  the  danger,  and 
flew  out  in  time  to  see  Tommy  standing  in  the  middle 
of  the  lane,  with  the  glare  of  a  motor's  headlights  just 
turning  on  him  as  it  rounded  the  corner  a  few  yards 
away.  Again  the  horn  sounded  warningly.  The  child 
gave  no  heed,  entranced  by  the  brilliancy  of  this  un- 
wonted apparition.  Another  second,  and  the  girl  had 
dashed  across  the  road  and  seized  the  child,  only  to 
catch  her  foot  in  some  obstacle,  trip,  and  fall  heavily  in 
the  ditch  on  the  opposite  side. 

Stephen  Grant,  sitting  next  to  his  man,  who  was 
driving,  had  glanced  up  to  see  first  the  boy,  and  then  a 
flying  figure  right  in  front  of  the  car,  almost,  it  seemed 
to  him,  under  the  very  wheels — and  he  had  seen  it  pitch 
forward  and  fall. 

The  car  pulled  up  with  a  jarring  and  grinding  of 
brakes,  but  long  before  that  Stephen  had  leaped  out.  A 
clutch  of  the  most  appalling  fear  and  anguish  he  had 
ever  known  had  him  by  the  throat  as  he  stooped  over 
the  prostrate  girl.  But  almost  immediately  she  attempted 
to  rise,  and  then  his  arms  were  round  her,  and  she  was 
lifted  to  her  feet. 


306  A  DREAM   OF   BLUE   ROSES 

She  gave  a  little  sound,  half  lau^h,  half  sob,  for  her 
nerves  were  shaken,  and  leaned  against  him  for  support, 
and  so  for  a  short  moment  she  stood  close  clasped  in  his 
embrace. 

"You  are  not  hurt?"  he  asked,  speaking  with  diffi- 
culty, and  as  he  spoke  he  laid  his  face  for  a  fleeting 
second  against  her  hair. 

"No,  no !  "  she  gasped.  "I  fell  with  Tommy.  I  hope 
I  did  not  hurt  him." 

She  meved  slightly,  and  he  released  her  instantly, 
and  the  episode,  such  as  it  was,  was  over,  for  the  stout 
Tommy  was  discovered  quite  uninjured,  although  more 
than  a  little  breathless,  seated  in  the  ditch. 

"  Were  that  a  motter-'orn  ?  "  he  asked  in  a  tone  of  awe, 
as  Stephen  picked  him  up  and  carried  him  to  his  granny. 

"A  motter-'orn!  I  should  just  think  it  were!" 
retorted  the  good  woman  furiously.  "  How  often  haven't 
I  told  you  to  mind  the  motter-'orn  ?  And  if  it  hadn't  a 
been  for  Miss  Barbara,  wherever  would  you  have  went  ?  " 

An  unanswerable  question  indeed,  but  Tommy  did  not 
attempt  to  solve  it;  he  was  gazing  wide-eyed  at  the 
brilliant  headlights,  entirely  regardless  of  everything 
else,  and  for  the  rest  of  his  childish  life  a  motter-'orn 
was  for  him  a  fearful  and  wonderful  beast  moving  swiftly 
on  silent  feet  which  groaned  and  wailed  like  nothing  he 
had  ever  seen  or  heard — a  fearful  and  wonderful  beast 
with  large  yellow,  staring  eyes. 

"I  came  to  tell  you  that  Mrs.  Arkwright  wants  to  see 
you  to-morrow,  and  to  say  that  I  will  come  and  fetch 
you  directly  after  luncheon,"  Stephen  said  awkwardly, 
when  at  length  he  could  stem  the  flood  of  Mrs.  Dodge's 
gratitude. 

He  did  not  wait  for  Barbara's  reply,  but  returned 
immediately  to  the  car,  which  backed  its  way  down  the 
lane.  He  was  conscious  of  nothing  but  the  one  fact  that 
a  moment's  anguish  had  told  him  all  he  wanted  to  know 
— had  shown  him  with  absolute  certainty  that,  come  what 
might,  his  whole  life  and  his  whole  future  were  bound 
up  in  the  little  form  he  had  held  for  a  moment  in  his 
arms.     He  was  thrilling  with  the  contact.    Every  pulse 


THE    BIGGEST   THING  807 

was  bounding,  and  through  his  whole  being  coursed  a 
stream  of  the  most  intense  emotion.  Partly  sickening 
fear  at  the  thought  of  what  might  have  been,  and  partly 
ecstasy,  that  at  last,  at  last  he  knew.  It  is  quite  possible 
that  he  over-estimated  the  danger,  quite  possible  that 
the  car  could  have  been  pulled  up  before  it  reached  her, 
even  had  she  not  fallen,  and  in  doing  so  thrown  herself 
out  of  reach — it  had  all  happened  so  quickly  that  he 
could  not  tell — but,  be  this  as  it  might,  the  light  had 
come  to  him  in  one  blinding  flash.  Risks  !  What  were 
they  ?  What  risks  could  count  against  the  knowledge 
that  here  at  last  was  love — love  with  all  it  could  mean  ? 
Just  the  biggest  thing  of  all.  The  blind  god,  having 
spared  Stephen  hitherto,  had  sent  his  arrow  well  home 
now,  and  he  quivered  under  the  wound. 

He  paced  up  and  down  his  room  that  night,  thinking 
of  her ;  of  her  gaiety,  of  her  gentle  sweetness,  and  of  the 
words  he  would  say  to  her,  and  of  her  reply.  And  then, 
of  course,  he  tortured  himself  with  the  thought  of  what 
it  would  mean  to  him  if  she  did  not  love  him — if  he 
could  not  teach  her  to  love  him. 

There  w^as  not,  after  all,  the  slightest  reason  why  she 
should;  he  w^as  older  than  she  was,  and  all  unversed  in 
the  art  of  Love's  warfare.  How,  if  she  denied  him 
entrance,  should  he  besiege  the  sanctuary  of  her  heart? 
He  longed  for  the  day  that  he  might  go  to  her,  a 
suppliant. 

So  this  was  Love  ?  An  overwhelming  force  that  shook 
him,  strong  man  as  he  was,  to  the  very  foundations  of 
his  being,  and  yet — as  he  thought,  and  thought,  and 
thought  again,  there  came  to  him  the  knowledge  that 
love  implied  more  than  a  boundless  attraction  drawing 
one  heart  to  another  with  bands  so  strong  that  they  seem 
almost  tangible.  It  meant  tender  companionship,  sweet- 
est dependence  and  infinite  trust,  growing  greater  and 
ever  dearer  through  the  passing  years. 

And  Stephen  was  right.  Love  is  a  great  and  wonder- 
ful gift  given  to  many,  but  to  love  greatly  is  a  lesson 
learned  only  by  a  few.  It  is  not  an  easy  lesson,  for  it 
can  only  be  studied  in  the  book  of  Service,  on  the  page 

X  2 


Sas  A   DREAM  OF   BLUE  ROSES 

of  Self-denial;  but  those  who  have  learned  it  are  the 
only  ones  who  can  keep  the  gift  pure  and  perfect  to 
the  end. 

And  Barbara,  lying  wakeful  in  her  bed,  stared  into  the 
darkness  with  eyes  that  were  half  bewildered,  wholly 
wistful.  Something  had  happened  to  her;  what  it  was 
she  could  not  yet  understand. 

It  was  as  though  she  was  standing  on  a  lonely  shore, 
alone  and  yet  not  alone,  and  at  her  feet  the  tide  was 
coming  in,  inch  by  inch,  in  tiny  rippling  wavelets,  quite 
small  at  first,  but  growing  greater  as  they  crept  up  one 
by  one.  And  behind  the  soft  music  of  the  waves  there 
sounded  in  her  ears  the  murmur  of  a  mighty  sea  behind, 
growing  louder  and  ever  louder  as  she  listened.  Her 
heart  was  beating  tremulously,  fearing  and  yet  welcom- 
ing the  unknown.  It  had  stirred  with  the  quick  flutter 
of  a  fledgling  bird  at  the  moment  when  she  had  found 
herself  drawn  into  the  shelter  of  arms  that  had  held  her 
closely,  when  the  tone  of  a  voice  had  reached  it — what 
mattered  the  words? — words  were  nothing.  His  heart 
had  called,  and  hers  had  answered  to  its  cry.  It  was 
waking  now,  waking  in  the  birth  of  her  womanhood. 

Wave  after  wave  broke— first  at  her  feet,  then  higher 
— higher,  until  she  was  lifted  gently  but  irresistibly, 
lifted  and  carried  out  on  to  the  illimitable  ocean,  to  meet 
a  joy  above  all  that  she  had  ever  known  or  dreamed. 

And  then  it  seemed  to  her  she  heard  Petite  Mere  speak- 
ing. The  dear  familiar  voice  came  faintly  as  though 
from  a  great  distance,  but  it  was  quite  distinct. 

"  Mignonne  1    C'est  I'amour  !  " 

"I  have  come  to  carry  you  off  for  a  drive,"  he  said, 
as  he  entered  the  old  kitchen  on  the  following  after- 
noon. "Aunt  Anne  has  consented.  She  does  not  want 
you,  and  Aunt  Margaret  is  quite  happy  with  the  nurse. 
Will  you  go  and  get  ready  ?  " 

So  Stephen  had  planned.  He  would  not  speak  the 
words  that  were  burning  on  his  lips  until  he  could  be 
quite  certain  that  there  could  be  no  chance  of  interrup- 


THE   BIGGEST    THING  809 

tion.  They  must  be  quite  alone,  he  and  she,  when  he  put 
his  fate  to  the  hazard — alone,  that  he  might  plead  his 
cause,  and  haply  might  not  plead  in  vain.  He  would 
take  her  away  somewhere,  anywhere,  so  that  they  could 
be  alone  together. 

He  was  standing  by  the  car  as  she  walked  down  the 
path,  and  he  watched  her  come.  Her  face  was  a  little 
pale,  and  her  eyes  serious,  with  dark  shadows  under  them 
which  told  of  sleeplessness,  but  beyond  that  he  could 
read  nothing.  He  wrapped  her  in  a  great  fur  coat  which 
he  had  brought  with  him  for  the  purpose,  helped  her  in, 
and  seated  himself  at  the  wheel  by  her  side.  He  drove 
slowly  down  the  lane  and  across  the  Green,  and  then, 
instead  of  taking  the  road  towards  St.  Ethel's,  he  turned 
in  the  opposite  direction,  and  quickened  his  pace. 

"Are  we  not  going  to  see  Molly?"  It  was  the  first 
time  she  had  spoken. 

"Not  yet.    Later." 

"Where  are  we  going?" 

"I  don't  know.  I  have  never  been  along  this  road 
before."  •     •*• 

The  day  was  bright  and  clear,  and  the  sun  was  shining 
— one  of  those  days  which  come  to  break  the  dreariness 
of  an  English  winter — days  when  the  skv  is  blue  above 
us,  and  nature  seems,  not  imprisoned,  but  sleeping 
gently.  They  bring  a  sense  of  expectancy,  these  days, 
drawing  thought  forward  to  the  spring,  rather  than 
reminding  us  of  summer's  vanished  beauty. 

Few  words  passed  between  them  as  they  sped  along 
between  the  grassy  banks,  where  the  bracken  lay  sere 
and  brown,  with  here  and  there  a  brilliant  leaf  of  bramble 
shining  like  a  jewel  in  a  setting  of  tarnished  gold — up 
on  to  a  wide  heath  where  the  fir  trees  stood  out  richlv 
green  against  the  sky — on,  always  on.  Distance  was  of 
no  account.  The  world  contained  nothing  but  just 
themselves  nnH  something  that  was  drawing  nearer  with 
every  heart-beat. 

At  last  the  road  ran  into  a  beech  wood,  an  aisle  of  giant 
trunks  clothed  in  garments  of  rirev,  and  fawn,  and  silver 
green,  and  Stephen  knew  that  he  had  found  the  place. 


810  A  DREAM  OF  BLUE  ROSES 

"Shall  we  get  out  and  walk  a  little?  "  he  said  quietly. 
"You  will  get  cold  sitting  still." 

He  pulled  up  the  car,  and  they  descended  and  walked 
a  while  without  speaking.     All  was  very  still ;  the  only 
sound  was  the  rustle  of  dry  leaves  under  their  feet,  and 
the  faint  soughing  of  the  breeze  in  the  tree-tops. 
Then  he  turned  and  faced  her. 

"Barbara,"  he  said,  "Barbara  !  "  And  then  could  say 
no  more.  All  the  pleading  he  had  prepared,  all  the 
words  he  meant  to  say,  had  gone.  He  stood  before  her 
with  his  hands  oustretched,  his  eyes  upon  hers.  "  I  love 
you,"  he  said  at  last,  "  I  love  you  !  Have  you  any  love 
for  me  ?  " 

Slowly  she  raised  her  hands  and  laid  them  in  his  with 
a  little  movement  of  absolute  trust,  absolute  confidence. 

"  I  did  not  know,"  she  said  simply,  "  I  did  not  know 
that  this  was  love." 

He  drew  closer  until  she  was  in  his  arms,  and  he 
stooped  his  face  to  hers. 

"Darling,  you  know  it  now,"  he  said  very  gently.  "I 
love  you.    Will  you  be  my  wife?" 

Her  lips  answered  his,  and  as  they  met  Love's 
Splendid  Magic  wove  a  golden  radiance  over  all. 

"Love  is  so  great  a  thing,"  she  murmured  presently. 
"It  changes  everything;   yesterday   I    was  alone — and 

now Why  do  you  want  me  ?    I  am  not  wise — and 

you  do  not  know  who  I  am,  or " 

"I  love  you,"  he  answered  passionately.  "You,  and 
nothing  in  the  world  beside.  Sweetheart,  nothing  in  the 
world  counts  but  you  and  I  and  Love." 

"You  do  not  want  to  know " 

"I  want  to  know  nothing  but  that  you  love  me." 
"But  I  must  tell  you,"  she  returned  gravely.     "Will 
you  listen  ?  " 

For  answer  he  kissed  her  again. 

"Tell  me  what  you  will;  but  oh  !  my  dear,  my  dear ! 
you  have  given  yourself  to  me,  and  nothing  can  cancel 
the  gift."  ^ 

"I  know  the  names  of  my  father  and  mother,  but  I 
know  nothing  further  of  them.    I  never  knew  any  parents 


THE  BIGGEST  THING  811 

but  P^re  Joseph  and  Petite  M^re.  Dear  Petite  M^re  ! 
Oh,  you  will  love  her,  won't  you?  Because  I  love  her 
so  dearly,  and  except  for  her  I  am  all  alone." 

"Net  now  I" 

"Not  now!"  she  corrected,  with  a  smile  that  lit  up 
the  eyes  he  loved.  "Not  now;  but  you  understand- 
there  is  no  one  else — and " 

"And  what,  darling?" 

"I  do  not  want  to  try  and  find  out.  Petite  M^re  is 
all  the  mother  I  ever  had.  She  is  more  than  my  mother 
— for  me,  ihat  other  is  nothing,  but  if  you  think  that 
you  should  know " 

"I  want  to  know  nothing,"  he  repeated.  "I  will  never 
try  and  find  out,  and  I  will  love  Petite  M^re  for  all  her 
love  for  you." 

"  I  wish  sh^  were  here  !  Oh,  so  greatly  I  wish  she 
were  here  !  " 

"Could  she  not  come  to  you  ?  " 

"I  fear  not.    The  journey  is  a  great  consideration." 

"If  she  cannot  come,  we  wiH  go  to  her  directly  we  are 
married.  When  shall  that  be,  Barbara.  You  will  not 
keep  me  waiting  long?" 

She  looked  thoughtful  for  a  minute. 

"Oh,  but  I  could  not  leave  Miss  Anne  until  she  is 
better  !     Who  would  look  after  them  both  ?  " 

"We  must  wail  until  she  is  stronger,"  he  agreed. 
"But  then  we  will  find  somebody  who  is  trustworthy, 
and  you  will  come  to  me.    First  we  will  go  and  see  your 

Petite  M^re,  and  then ^    What  would  you  like  to  do  ? 

We  will   do  whatever  you   like  best.     I  want  you  to 
choose." 

"But" — she  hesitated — "I  might  choose  something 
that  was  too  great  an  affair.    Something  impossible." 

"I  don't  think  you  will,"  he  said,  smiling.  "Tell  me 
what  you  are  thinking  of." 

"I  had  always  planned  that  some  dav,  when  I  had 
obtained  the  fortune  I  came  to  seek,  that  I  would  go  and 
see  the  world.  Petite  M^re  and  I  were  to  go  together — 
*  to  find  the  fairies.'  We  were  to  visit  the  most  wonder- 
ful places,  and  see  the  most  wonderful  things !     But — 


812  A  DREAM  OF   BLUE   ROSES 

there  was  no  fortune ;  it  was  all  a  most  foolish  mistake 
— a  dream  of  Blue  Roses,  you  understand — a  mirage  that 
faded  away.  And  so,  you  see,  that  was  the  end  oi  my 
castle  in  Spain  !  " 

"No,  not  the  end,"  he  cried.  "Come  with  me,  Bar- 
bara ;  let  me  show  you  all  the  wonderful  things  you 
planned  to  see.    Let  us  build  the  castle  again  together  !  " 

"Would  it  be  possible?" 

"Of  course  it  would  be  possible.  It  is  the  cne  thing 
of  all  others  I  should  love  to  do." 

They  had  been  strolling  along,  all  unheeding  of 
whither  their  steps  were  leading,  but  now  (hey  found 
themselves  approaching  what  appeared  to  be  ihe  entrance 
to  a  park.  Before  them  was  an  old  red  brick  lodge, 
half  buried  in  ivy,  but  the  wrought-iron  s:ates  which 
should  have  barred  the  way  were  lying  off  their  hinges, 
overgrown  by  grass  and  weeds. 

"  How  deserted  it  looks  !  "  said  Barbara. 

"We  will  go  in  and  explore,"  suggested  vStephen,  and 
they  turned  into  an  avenue  of  beeches,  at  the  end  of 
which  they  could  catch  glimpses  of  a  house. 

They  walked  on  hand  in  hand,  talking  together  as 
lovers  have  talked  since  the  beginning,  and  will  until 
the  end;  and  at  last  they  came  to  another  gate,  which, 
after  some  struggling  with  a  rusty  latch,  opened  to 
Stephen's  hand. 

They  entered  a  great  courtyard,  and  in  front  of  them 
was  an  old  mansion  with  quaint  gables  and  chimnevs 
and  heavy  mullioned  windows.  Two  stone  lions  guarded 
a  flight  of  shallow,  moss-grown  steps  which  led  to  a 
front  door.  Stephen  turned  the  handle,  but  it  was 
locked. 

"Let  us  come  round  to  the  other  side,"  he  said.  "I 
never  saw  a  more  beautiful  old  house,  but  it  looks  as 
though  the  Seven  Sleepers  had  been  in  possession  for 
a  hundred  years." 

Barbara  peeped  through  a  window. 

"  I  wish  we  could  go  inside.  I  am  sure  we  should  find 
Barbarossa  asleep,  with  his  beard  grown  right  through 
the  table  while  he  slept." 


THE   BIGGEST  THING  818 

A  small  door  in  a  side  wall  admitted  them  to  what 
had  evidently  been  a  splendid  garden  in  days  long  gone 
by,  but  was  now  all  ruinous  and  overgrown.  Terraces 
sloped  down  to  a  stream  which  ran  sullenly,  half  choked 
in  weeds  and  slime;  and  through  the  dead  vegetation 
they  could  trace  old-fashioned  parterres  primly  set  round 
a  broken  sun-dial. 

"It  must  have  been  perfect  when  it  was  cared  for," 
said  Barbara.  "I  have  never  seen  anything  like  it — so 
ancient  and  so  magnificent.  Just  imagine  it  in  the 
summer  when  the  sun  is  shining,  and  all  the  trees  are 
out.  Oh,  it  is  sad  to  think  no  one  lives  here  now.  What 
can  be  its  history  ?  " 

"I  haven't  any  idea.  I  don't  even  know  where  we 
are.  I  will  find  out  when  we  get  back.  You  are  quite 
right.  It  would  be  a  paradise  in  the  summer.  It  only 
needs  repairing  and  setting  in  order.  Shall  we  come 
and  live  in  it,  sweetheart,  when  we  return  from  our 
wanderings." 

She  laughed  at  the  jest,  and  answered  merrily — 

"But  of  course  we  will  come  and  live  in  it;  and  we 
will  plant  the  parterres  full  of  roses,  and  have  peacocks 
strutting  on  the  terrace,  and  I  will  wear  a  ruff,  and — what 
is  it  you  call  it  ? — I  was  reading  only  lately  about  it — 
oh  yes,  a  farthingale  !  " 

"I  don't  know  what  it  is  in  the  least,  but  it  sounds 
very  attractive  I  You  shall  have  a  black  boy  to  carry 
your  train,  and  I  am  sure  you  must  carry  a  fan  of 
peacocks'  feathers." 

"No,  no,  I  refuse  !     They  are  too  unlucky." 

So  they  jested  like  happy  children,  until  the  waning 
daylight  warned  them  they  must  be  returning. 

"We  will  go  and  see  Molly  on  our  way,"  said  Stephen, 
as  they  walked  back  towards  the  car.  "But  you  must 
not  stay  long,  because  I  want  to  take  you  to  Aunt  Anne, 
and  I  am  going  to  leave  you  to-night." 

"You  are  going  away?" 

"I  am  going  away,  but  I  shall  return  very  soon.  In 
three  davs  at  latest.  I  can't  bear  to  leave  you,  but  I 
must  go." 


814  A   DREAM   OF   BLUE   ROSES 

As  he  helped  her  into  his  coat  he  held  her  for  a 
moment. 

"It  is  all  too  wonderful,"  he  murmured.  "Soon,  very 
soon,  you  will  be  my  wife — and  then  we  shall  never  part 
again.  First  we  will  go  and  see  your  Petite  M^re,  and 
then — we  will  go  and  find  your  fairies.  Just  you  and  I, 
with  the  world  before  us." 

"And  my  dream  will  come  true,"  she  whispered. 
"  But,  mon  ami !  " — she  lifted  a  radiant  face  to  his — 
"there  is  no  need  to  go  and  seek  them,  for  the  fairies 
have  found  me  !  " 


CHAPTER    XXXI 


LITTLE   WINGS   OF  ANGELS 


"  If  love  is  not  worth  loving,  then  life  is  not  worth  living, 
Nor  aught  is  worth  remembering,  but  well  forgot ; 
For  store  is  not  worth  storing,  and  gifts  are  not  worth  giving, 
If  love  is  not." 

Christina  Rossettl 

Barbara  sat  sewing  beside  Miss  Anne's  couch,  while 
at  a  table  in  the  corner  of  the  room  Miss  Margaret 
strove  to  occupy  herself  with  the  fascinating  Miss 
Milligan.  It  was  evident  that  the  attention  of  the 
latter  strayed  from  the  intricacies  of  her  favourite  game 
of  Patience,  for  again  and  again  she  gathered  the  cards 
together,  and  again  and  again  she  shuffled  and  set 
them  out.  Even  the  exchanging  of  a  card  was  effected 
lightly  and  entirely  without  the  consideration  due  to 
so  questionable  a  proceeding,  for  the  little  lady's  mind 
was  in  a  whirl. 

Ever  since  the  moment  that  Stephen  had  announced 
his  engagement,  Miss  Margaret  had  been  in  a  flutter 
of  excitement.  The  prospect  of  a  wedding  was  so 
absolutely  enthralling,  she  could  think  of  nothing  else. 
It  was  in  vain  that  Barbara  assured  her  that  they  were 
not  going  to  be  married  at  once;  Miss  Margaret  busied 
herself  over  every  detail  as  though  the  great  day  would 
arrive  with  to-morrow's  dawn,  almost,  in  fact,  before 
a  fresh  row  of  bows  could  be  stitched  on  her  freshest 
and  most  frilly  gown  ! 

She  plied  every  one  with  questions.  Would  there  be 
favours  ?  When  her  old  friend  Mary  Deane  was 
married  ("a  very  smart  wedding,  my  dear")  there  was 
a  favour  for  every  one  in  the  church — little  bunches 
of  orange  blossom — not  real,  you  know,  but  made  out 
of  wax  and  tied  up  with  satin  ribbon.    I  have  mine  still. 

315 


316  A  DREAM  OF  BLUE  ROSES 

And  she  drove  in  a  carriage  with  four  white  horses, 
ridden  by  postillions,  and  even  the  postillions  had 
favours,  and  there  were  bunches  of  white  flowers  in 
the  carriage  lamps.  Will  you  have  four  w^hite  horses, 
Barbara?  And  how  many  bridesmaids?  I  have  been 
a  bridesmaid  several  times,  but  of  course  not  for  a  long 
while.  And  will  there  be  little  slices  of  wedding  cake 
in  boxes,  Barbara?  I  have  seen  them.  There  is  a  card 
inside  each  box  with  the  bride's  maiden  name  crossed 
through  with  a  silver  arrow,  and  her  married  name  and 
the  bridegroom's.  How  will  you  feel  with  a  new  name? 
I  am  so  glad  you  will  have  a  fresh  initial,  and  are  not 
keeping  the  same  one.  There  are  not  many  names 
beginning  with  V,  are  there?  Tt  is  a  good  thing — I 
have  always  felt  it  is  better  to  change  it,  although  it 
means  more  work  in  marking  your  clothes.  Will  you 
have  everything  new  ? 

And  so  on,  and  so  on. 

Miss  Anne  was  growing  stronger,  but  as  yet  she  was 
unequal  to  any  sustained  conversation  or  effort,  and 
she  lay  upon  the  sofa  listening  quietly  to  her  sister's 
chatter,  and  watching  the  girl  beside  her.  A  change 
had  come  over  Miss  Anne  since  her  illness,  a  change 
which  Barbara  had  not  failed  to  notice.  Gentleness  had 
always  been  her  chief  characteristic,  but  now  to  her 
gentleness  had  been  added  something  which  the  girl 
could  only  describe  as  peace.  Her  face  was  sad,  but  it 
was  with  a  sadness  free  from  regret — free  from  all 
anxiety.  The  cloud  which  had  shadowed  her  whole 
life  had  passed,  leaving  a  great  calm,  and  because  she 
trusted  implicitly  in  an  Almighty  Wisdom  which  knows 
and  pities  and  understands,  Miss  Anne  was  at  peace. 

The  engagement  of  the  two  to  whom  she  was  so 
attached  brought  her  infinite  joy.  She  had  always 
greatly  desired  to  see  Stephen  married,  and  now  her 
wish  was  to  be  fulfilled.  She  put  out  her  hand  and  laid 
it  with  a  gesture  of  great  affection  on  Barbara's  knee. 

The  girl  looked  up  and  smiled  in  quick  response. 

"Have  you  heard  when  Stephen  is  coming?" 

"No,  I  have  not  heard,  but  he  said  three  days,  and 


LITTLE   WINGS   OF   ANGELS  317 

to-day  is  the  third  day,  so  1  expect  he  will  come,"  she 
said,  with  a  little  blush. 

"Do  you  think  Mrs.  Arkwright  would  come  and 
see  me  ?  I  should  like  to  see  her  if  it  would  be  quite 
safe." 

"  I  am  sure  she  would  come.  Oh  yes,  it  is  perfectly 
safe  now.  1  saw  her  two  days  ago,  but  only  for  a  few 
minutes." 

"How  are  the  children?" 

"They  are  all  well  again.  Phil  has  gone  back  to  his 
work  and  the  boys  to  school.  I  thought  Patsy  looked 
very  white,  but  1  suppose  that  is  only  natural  after 
being  in  bed  so  long,  and  unfortunately,  being  winter, 
she  cannot  get  out  very  much.  If  it  were  only  summer 
she  could  be  in  the  fresh  air  all  day,  and  her  cheeks 
would  soon  be  rosy  again." 

Stephen  and  Barbara  had  only  paid  the  Arkwrights 
a  short  visit,  and,  as  may  be  imagined,  the  news  they 
had  to  tell  had  been  received  with  such  a  hubbub  of 
congratulation,  for  the  whole  family  happened  to  be  at 
home,  that  the  girl  had  had  no  opportunity  for  any 
private  talk  with  Molly.  She  longed  to  see  her  friend, 
not  only  to  tell  of  her  own  happiness,  but  to  find  out 
many  things  which  she  wished  to  know. 

She  had  thought  Dick  pretty  well ;  he  had  been  more 
cheery  and  even  a  little  too  excited,  Barbara  thought; 
but  she  had  not  felt  at  all  satisfied  about  Molly,  who 
had  certainly  grown  much  thinner,  and  showed  evident 
traces  of  the  strain  through  which  she  had  passed. 

There  was  no  doubt  that  Patsy  ought  to  be  sent  away 
to  some  seaside  place  to  recover  her  general  tone.  In 
fact,  that  was  what  Molly  wanted  too ;  the  whole  family 
should  go  away  somewhere  where  there  was  sunshine. 
But  even  as  she  thought,  she  knew  it  was  impossible. 
They  could  not  possibly  afford  it. 

She  was  so  happy  herself  that  she  longed  to  feel  that 
those  she  cared  for  w'ere  happy  too,  so  deeply  conscious 
of  her  joy  that  she  would  have  liked  to  share  it  with 
the  whole  world.  It  was  all  so  new  and  strange  and 
wonderful,  this  thing  that  had  come  into  her  life,  that 


818  A  DREAM  OF  BLUE   ROSES 

she  could  not  measure  the  depth  of  her  contisnt.  Sure 
as  she  was  of  her  love  for  Stephen,  and  implicitly  as  she 
trusted  in  his  love  for  her,  yet  he  was  still  in  some 
degree  a  stranger,  and  she  was  fearful  lest  she  should 
fail  in  any  way — lest  in  her  ignorance  and  lack  of  know- 
ledge of  the  world  she  should  disappoint  him.  Yet  he 
had  chosen  her — chosen  her,  young  and  inexperienced  as 
she  was,  from  all  the  women  of  his  acquaintance,  because 
he  loved  her.  She  would  do  her  best  to  be  worthy  of 
his  love;  she  would  do  her  best  to  learn  all  the  hundred 
and  one  things  of  which  she  was  ignorant,  things 
belonging  to  the  world  in  which  he  had  lived  and 
moved,  and  which  had  never  entered  into  her  life  at 
the  little  Pavilion. 

She  had  written  to  Petite  M6re,  telling  her  simply 
what  had  happened — a  short  letter,  and  rather  inco- 
herent, but  brimming  over  with  love  and  gratitude  and 
affection.  She  longed  for  the  reply^ — Petite  Mare's 
letters  were  always  just  a  glimpse  of  herself,  and  com- 
forting and  dear.  She  must  ask  Stephen  (it  was  still 
difficult  to  even  think  of  him  as  Stephen)  to  write  to 
Petite  M^re ;  he  would  explain  all  that  Cherie  would 
naturally  want  to  know. 

How  she  yearned  for  her  !  It  was  so  hard  to  feel  that 
she  was  far  away  and  outside  all  this,  the  greatest  thing 
in  her  life — it  was  at  such  a  time  as  this  that  a  girl 
needed  a  mother  to  guide  and  to  advise.  And  Stephen 
did  not  know  her  !  It  seemed  so  strange  that  the  man 
she  loved  and  had  promised  to  marry  did  not  even  know 
the  little  woman  who  had  been  all  in  all  to  her  through 
her  previous  life.  But  when  he  knew  her  he  would 
love  her — no  one  could  possibly  help  loving  Petite 
M^re. 

"Barbara,  what  have  you  chosen  for  your  wedding 
gown  ? "  Miss  Margaret's  voice  broke  through  her 
reverie. 

"I  have  not  chosen  anything,"  she  replied,  with  a 
smile.     "I  have  not  thought  about  it." 

"Not  thought  about  it?"  returned  the  old  lady.  "I 
thought  of  it  at  once,  and  I  should  have  supposed  it 


LITTLE   WINGS   OF   ANGELS  819 

would  have  been  the  first  thing  in  your  mind  too.  I 
think  I  should  have  a  soft  white  silk,"  she  continued 
after  a  moment's  reflection.  "Of  course  satin  is  more 
fashionable,  but  it  is  a  little  stiff,  don't  you  think? 
Silk  is  so  young  !  And  I  would  have  three  frills  round 
the  edge  of  the  skirt  and  one  frill  round  the  fichu  over 
the  shoulders,  and  wear  a  knot  of  orange  blossom  in 
the  front,  and  another  knot  of  orange  blossom  in 
the  side  of  my  hair  under  my  veil."  The  old  lady 
spoke  sentimentally  and  rather  jerkily,  setting  down  a 
card  with  every  item  she  enumerated.  Then,  pausing 
with  the  ace  of  hearts  held  high  in  the  air,  she  deliber- 
ated a  moment.  "Yes — yes,"  she  said  decidedly.  "I 
would  carry  one  white  rose  in  my  hand,"  and  with  that 
she  set  the  ace  of  hearts  down  upon  the  rest  of  the  suit 
as  if  to  crown  the  whole. 

"My  dear,"  said  Miss  Anne  kindly,  "you  have 
forgotten  that  fashion  has  changed;  Barbara  will,  I 
am  sure,  want  to  consider  a  little  what  is  the  present 
mode  for  a  bride.  I  think  the  orange  blossom  at  the 
side  of  the  hair  is  just  a  trifle  out  of  date." 

But  Barbara  was  not  listening;  her  quick  ear  had 
caught  the  sound  of  a  "  motter-'orn,"  and  she  rose  to  her 
feet. 

Miss  Anne  nodded  affectionately.  "Run  along,  my 
dear.     We  shall  be  quite  all  right  till  nurse  comes  in." 

She  stopped  in  the  porch,  a  feeling  of  shyness 
preventing  her  from  going  farther,  and  in  another 
moment  he  was  walking  towards  her  up  the  little 
flagged  path ;  he  held  a  small  box  covered  with  white 
paper  in  his  hand,  and  wore  a  thick  coat  and  a  travelling 
cap. 

Just  as  he  reached  her  he  stopped  and  said  in  French, 
"Babette,  I  bring  thee  little  wings  of  angels." 

For  a  second  she  stared  in  amazement,  and  then  she 
understood.  She  stepped  quickly  to  him  with  a  little 
cry. 

"Oh  !  you  have  been  !  you  have  been  !  "  and  the  next 
moment  she  was  tightly  clasped,  half  laughing,  half 
sobbing,  to  his  breast. 

"Yes,    I    have   been,   and   I    have   seen   your   Petite 


820  A  DREAM   OF   BLUE   ROSES 

M^re,  and  she  has  given  me  her  blessing,  and  Melanie 
sent  you  the  little  wings  of  angels.  She  made  them 
in  a  great  hurry,  because  I  could  not  stay  very  long, 
but  directly  she  heard  the  news  she  said,  '  La  Petite 
will  want  a  little  taste  of  home  !  '  " 

"Oh,  Stephen,  it  is  good  of  you  !  It  is  so  dear  of 
you  to  have  thought  of  it !  " 

As  she  spoke,  she  remembered  how  Molly  had  said 
that  Stephen  was  one  of  those  people  who  thought  of 
everything  and  never  talked  of  what  he  was  going  to 
do,  but  only  did  it. 

"Let  us  go  inside,  I  have  such  great  news  for  you." 
He  took  off  his  coat  as  he  spoke,  and  presently,  when 
they  were  seated  side  by  side  on  the  old  settle,  he  said, 
smiling — 

"You  haven't  told  me  you  are  glad  to  see  me  yet." 

"There  is  no  need,  because  you  know  that,"  she 
whispered. 

"Tell  me!" 

And  when  she  had  told  him  to  his  satisfaction,  he 
began  to  speak  of  his  journey. 

" I  really  went  to  see  if  Petite  M^re  would  not  come. 
I  wanted  to  bring  her  to  you  because  I  knew  you  would 
love  to  have  her,  but  she  would  not.  You  were  right 
when  you  said  I  should  love  her — she  is  perfectly 
charming,  and  we  made  great  friends.  You  won't  be 
jealous,  will  you,  darling,  if  I  tell  you  that  1  kissed 
her  when  we  parted." 

Barbara  gave  a  little  happy  laugh,  and  would  so 
have  liked  to  see  Stephen  bending  down  to  kiss  Cherie, 
who  would  not  come  nearly  as  high  as  his  shoulder. 

"  I  told  her  all  about  everything,  and  that  you  were 
happy;  which  is  quite  true,  sweetheart,  isn't  it?" 

"Quite  true." 

"And  I  promised  her  that  directly  we  were  married 
I  would  take  you  to  her.  I  could  not  persuade  her  to 
come.  She  told  me  to  tell  you  that  her  heart  is  with 
you  and  that  she  is  writing." 

"And  you  saw  the  little  house:  it  is  very  tiny,  is  it 
not?" 


LITTLE   WINGS   OF  ANGELS  321 

"  It  is  charming,  and  Petite  Mere  took  me  round  and 
showed  me  everything,  so  that  I  could  tell  you  the  latest 
news  of  all  the  things  you  cherished." 

"I  know,"  said  Barbara;  "Cleopatre  and  Paul  and 
Virginie  and  Alcibiade." 

"No,  not  Alcibiade.  He  is  no  more,  but  his  successor 
is  very  handsome.  Petite  Mere  is  waiting  for  you  to 
find  a  name  for  him." 

"Did  you  drive  to  the  station  with  Cleopatre?  "  asked 
Barbara,  with  great  interest. 

"No,  I  regret  to  say  that  I  did  not.  As  a  matter 
of  fact  1  hired  a  motor  in  Rouen  because  the  trains 
did  not  fit." 

"  A  motor  !  All  the  way  from  Rouen  !  I  do  not 
suppose  a  motor  had  ever  been  seen  near  the  Pavilion. 
However  did  you  find  the  way  ?  " 

"I  picked  up  a  small  boy  on  the  high  road  just  after 
you  pass  the  church.  He  was  evidently  rather  alarmed 
but  full  of  valour,  and  he  thoroughly  enjoyed  himself 
sitting  beside  the  driver." 

"What  was  he  like?     I  wonder  if  I  know  him." 

"  He  had  absolutely  scarlet  hair,  and  squinted 
abominably.  He  was  intelligent,  but  by  no  means 
beautiful." 

"Oh,  but  I  can  guess  who  he  was!  It  was  Francois 
Monnaie;  his  mother  keeps  the  shop.  Yes,  he  is  cer- 
tainly not  beautiful,  Francois,  but  he  has  plenty  of 
intelligence.  I  can  fancy  that  a  motor  must  have  been 
very  exciting  for  the  inhabitants  of  the  village.  Why, 
I  do  not  believe  Melanie  has  ever  seen  a  motor,  or,  if 
she  has  seen  one,  it  would  not  be  more  than  once  or 
twice.  She  has  hardly  ever  been  out  of  the  garden  all 
the  time  we  have  lived  at  the  Pavilion." 

She  questioned  him  gaily  about  this  and  that,  inter- 
ested in  every  detail  connected  with  the  home  she  loved, 
until  at  last  Stephen  said — 

"You  have  not  asked  me  about  my  news." 

"I  am  so  sorry,"  she  said  penitently;  "it  is  selfish 
of  me  :  please  tell  me." 

"It  has  to  do  with  the  Arkwrights." 


822  A  DREAM   OF   BLUP:   ROSES 

She  started  up  in  sudden  alarm.  "They  are  not  in 
trouble  ?  " 

"No,  no,"  he  said  soothingly.  "Put  your  head  down 
again  and  I  will  tell  you  all  about  it.  I  only  heard  it 
myself  to-day,  for  when  the  car  met  me  at  the  station 
it  brought  a  note  from  Dick,  asking  me  to  see  him  at 
once,  and  saying  that  the  matter  was  important.  I 
thought  it  was  rather  a  nuisance,  because  1  wanted  to 
come  straight  to  you ;  but  instead  of  that  I  went  to  the 
'  White  House  '  and  stayed  there  two  hours,  so  you  may 
fancy  it  was  something  very  important." 

"Do  tell  me." 

"Well,  it  really  is  splendid  news.  It  appears  that  a 
relation  of  Dick's  is  dead,  and  that  he  is  the  next  heir 
to  the  property." 

Barbara  started  to  her  feet.  "Oh,  he  is  dead!  "  she 
cried. 

"  How  did  you  know  anything  about  him  ?  " 

"Molly  told  me  once  that  there  was  some  relation 
who  was  very  old,  and  that  at  his  death  Dick  would — 
how  do  you  say  it? — succeed.  Oh,  Stephen,  is  it  really 
true  ?    And  Molly  will  be  free  from  care  at  last." 

"  Well,  it  seems  to  be  true  enough.  He  died  some  time 
ago,  nearly  two  months,  I  believe,  and  the  lawyers 
informed  Dick,  as  he  was  the  next  of  kin.  The  old 
gentleman  left  no  will,  and  he  is  the  nearest  relative, 
so  unless  some  one  else  turns  up,  he'll  get  the  whole 
property;  and,  do  you  know,  Barbara,  that  the  lovely 
place  we  saw  is  Brook  Stretton,  the  very  place  that  will 
belong  to  Dick  if  all  is  settled  up  as  we  hope  it  will 
be.  The  poor  chap  was  so  afraid  of  raising  his  wife's 
hopes  that  he  never  told  her  a  word  about  it  until 
yesterday,  when  the  lawyer  wrote  and  told  him  that 
they  had  not  so  far  been  able  to  trace  any  one  with 
any  nearer  claim." 

"Oh,"  cried  Barbara,  with  sparkling  eyes.  "I  cannot 
tell  you  how  I  rejoice  !  Just  think  of  Molly  and  the 
children  in  that  beautiful  place  !  " 

"There  is  a  good  deal  of  money,  too,"  said  Stephen. 
"So  far  as  I  can  understand  they  will  have  a  very  fine 


LITTLE   WINGS   OF  ANGELS  828 

income,  more  than  enough  to  put  the  house  in  order 
and  Hve  there  comfortably  and  start  the  boys  well. 
He  seems  to  have  been  a  most  eccentric  old  person, 
old  Brook.  He  only  came  home  about  once  a  year, 
and  no  one  knew  where  he  was  or  what  he  was  doing." 

"He  must  have  been  a  wicked  old  man  to  neglect  a 
property  like  that,"  said  Barbara.  "It  will  be  a  long 
time  before  it  can  be  set  in  order.  Oh  !  just  think  of 
what  it  will  mean  to  Molly  I  Dick  can  go  abroad  and 
have  all  the  care  he  needs  to  get  quite  strong  again, 
and  Patsy  can  go  to  the  sea,  and  Phil  need  not  go  on 
working  in  that  stupid  office,  where  there  is  no  chance 
of  his  getting  on.  Oh !  it  is  too  good  to  be  true. 
How  long  will  it  be  before  they  know  it  is  quite 
certain  ?  " 

"I  am  not  sure  of  the  law,  but  I  fancy  it  must  be 
some  little  time  before  they  can  take  possession.  The 
lawyers  seem  to  think  that  if  no  one  puts  in  a  claim 
there  won't  be  any  difficulty.  In  Dick's  family,  at 
any  rate,  he  had  always  been  recognized  as  the  heir. 
He  is  the  eldest  of  his  branch.  Old  Brook  was  a  cousin 
of  his  mother's,  I  believe.  But  I  shall  know  more 
about  it  in  a  few  days,  for  he  has  asked  me  to  go  up 
to  London  to  see  the  lawyers  for  him.  He  isn't  fit  for 
the  journey  himself." 

"It  is  simply  too  splendid!  Isn't  it  wonderful  what 
a  difference  mdViey  can  make  in  people's  lives  ?  " 

"Money  isn't  everything." 

"No,"  she  said.  "But  it  is  a  great  deal,  isn't  it?  It 
is  no  use  pretending  that  money  is  not  a  great  posses- 
sion, because  it  makes  a  great  deal  of  difference  to 
people's  happiness." 

He  looked  at  her  keenly.  What  did  a  child  like  her 
know  about  money  ? 

And  Barbara,  for  her  part,  thought :  He  has  never 
had  to  count  over  with  torment  of  soul  the  spending  of 
every  sou,  otherwise  he  would  know  that  money  is  of 
the  very  greatest  importance.  Not  riches — they  were 
not  necessary — but  the  modest  competence,  which,  as 
Petite  M^re  truly  said,  makes  for  godly  living.     It  is 

V  2 


324  A  DREAM   OF   BLUE   ROSES 

difficult  to  be  cheerful  and  good  tempered  and  to  practise 
all  the  other  virtues,  if  you  are  perpetually  harassed  by 
the  thought  of  how  you  are  going  to  pay  for  the  neces- 
sities of  life.  But  of  this  Stephen  knew  nothing.  How 
should  he  ?     It  was  outside  his  experience  altogether. 

"Well,  I  am  thankful  for  Dick  and  his  wife,  because 
undoubtedly  it  is  a  splendid  thing  for  them,"  he  said. 

"  How  I  wish  I  could  see  Molly !  " 

"Well,  put  on  your  hat  and  come  over  now,"  he  said. 
"The  car  is  outside,  and  I  know  she  is  longing  to 
see  you.     I'll  go  up  to  Aunt  Anne  while  you  get  ready." 

Phil,  who  was  the  only  one  of  the  young  Arkwrights 
who  had  at  present  been  told  of  the  change  in  the  family 
fortunes,  was  standing  on  the  doorstep  as  Stephen  and 
Barbara  drew  up  to  the  house. 

"Come  in,"  he  said.  "Father  and  mother  are  in  the 
drawing-room.  I  am  so  glad  you  have  come.  Poor 
little  mother  is  nearly  out  of  her  mind  with  it  all." 

And  indeed  this  seemed  to  be  the  case,  for  presently 
Molly  took  Barbara  into  another  room,  leaving  the  men 
to  talk  business;  and  then  she  threw  her  arms  round 
the  girl  and  stood  shaking  from  head  to  foot,  striving 
in  vain  for  self-control.  Barbara  held  her  close  and 
soothed  her  with  loving  words.  It  was,  after  all,  so 
natural  that  she  should  break  down  now  that  all  her 
struggles  seemed  to  have  come  to  an  end.  It  is  always 
upon  the  woman  that  the  burden  presses  hardest  in  a 
question  of  ways  and  means.  A  man  may  feel  obliged 
to  deny  himself  many  things,  and  be  harassed  by  the 
knowledge  that  the  quarter's  income  will  barely  suffice; 
but  it  is  the  woman  who  has  to  do  the  planning  and 
contriving,  in  a  thousand  petty  ways  of  which  he  knows 
nothing;  and  it  is  a  mother  who,  while  pressing  her 
children  to  take  a  second  helping,  is  considering  all 
the  time  whether,  if  they  do,  the  joint  will  suffice  for 
the  morrow's  dinner. 

At  last  she  grew  calmer.  "  What  a  miserable  coward 
I  am  I  "  she  said,  with  an  attempt  at  a  smile.  "But  I 
didn't  sleep  a  wink  last  night  for  thinking  of  all  the 
little  things,   the  odious  little  things  that  no  one  has 


LITTLE   WINGS   OF  ANGELS  325 

known  anything  about.  For  it  really  does  seem  as  if 
we  should  never  have  to  worry  over  them  again.  And 
Dick  has  known  it  all  for  weeks,  and  never  said  a  word 
about  it.  I  thought  something  was  on  his  mind,  but  I 
imagined  it  was  the  children's  illness  and  the  doctor's 
bill,  and  instead  of  that  it  was  this  stupendous  thing. 
Oh,  Barbara,  my  heart  is  so  full  of  thankfulness,  I 
can   hardly  speak  coherently." 

"I  don't  wonder;  I  nearly  cried  for  joy  when  I  heard 
of  it." 

"Just  think  of  it:  Dick  can  go  to  that  place  in 
Germany  and  get  cured;  and  Phil,  dear  old  Phil,  who 
has  been  such  a  brick,  can  have  some  of  the  fun  which 
is  owing  to  him,  and  the  boys  ! — oh,  there  is  no  end 
to  the  list  of  joys  which  I  can  see  dancing  before  my 
eyes  I  The  world  seems  full  of  happiness.  Here  are 
you  two  dear  people  going  to  be  married,  just  the 
very  thing  I  have  hoped  for;  for  you  are  the  one  wife 
for  Stephen,  and  you  will  have  the  best  husband  in 
the  world — except  my  Dick,  of  course,"  she  said, 
smiling.  "I  did  want  you  to  marry  Stephen,  because 
he  really  is  one  of  the  salt  of  the  earth.  I  never  knew 
any  one  so  thoughtful  or  so  kind." 

''I  know,  Molly,  I  know,"  said  Barbara  softly.  "Oh, 
Molly,  do  you  think  I  shall  be  able  to  make  him  happy  ? 
I  feel  as  if  I  were  so  ignorant  of  many  things  which 
come  quite  naturally  to  you.  I  have  lived  so  out  of 
the  world." 

"That  doesn't  matter  a  pin,"  said  Molly  stoutly. 
"He  loves  you,  and  you  love  him.  He  won't  worry 
about  the  things  you  don't  know.  Do  you  know,  I 
have  always  felt  sorry  for  Stephen.  I  am  sure  he 
could  not  have  had  a  happy  childhood  or  a  good  mother. 
He  seems  to  distrust  women  so,  and  I  was  afraid  he 
never  would  find  any  one  to  prove  to  him  that  they 
were  not  all  selfish  and  shallow.  I  have  so  wanted  him 
to  choose  some  one  who  would  make  it  all  up  to  him." 

"How  am  I  to  do  it?"  asked  Barbara  earnestly. 

"Just  by  your  love  for  each  other,"  said  Molly  simply. 
"You  must  just  teach  him  all  it  really  means,  because 


326  A  DREAM   OF  BLUE   ROSES 

a  m,an  never  really  knows  unless  a  woman  teaches  him. 
You  must  let  him  right  into  your  heart,  and  then  you 
will  get  right  into  his.  Stephen  has  always  suffered 
from  bottling  things  up  in  himself,  he  has  got  that 
nature.  You  must  share  everything,  and  never  let 
the  smallest  thing  come  between  you.  Oh,  I  know 
that  what  I  say  is  true.  One  has  to  be  so  careful  of 
the  trifles  that  cause  division." 

"I  will  remember." 

"Forgive  me  for  speaking,  won't  you?"  said  Molly 
prettily,  "but  I  know  more  about  men  than  you  do, 
and  although  they  are  very  dear,  they  are  not  always 
easy.     When  are  you  going  to  be  married  ?  " 

"I  do  not  know.  Nothing  is  settled;  you  see,  the 
old  ladies  must  be  considered." 

"I  can't  think  what  they  will  do  without  you,"  said 
Molly,  with  conviction.  "Ah,  here  is  Stephen.  Have 
I  kept  her  too  long?" 

"Much  too  long,"  he  answered,  smiling,  as  he  crossed 
over  to  where  Barbara  was  standing.  "But  I  forgive 
you.  I  congratulate  you,  Mrs.  Dick,  more  than  I  can 
say !  If  ever  two  people  deserved  their  luck,  it  is  you 
and  Dick.  So  far  as  I  can  see  the  matter  ought  to  be 
fixed  up  soon." 

After  some  further  conversation  Barbara  asked  for 
Patsy,  who  had  not  appeared. 

"She  is  upstairs,"  said  her  mother.  "I  sent  her  to 
rest.  Amelia  is  reading  to  her.  Oh,  by  the  way, 
Barbara,  I  never  told  you.  The  partnership  of  Me  an' 
Alius  is  dissolved.     An  awful  thing  has  happened." 

"What  do  you  mean?"  But  Phil,  entering  at  the 
moment,  burst  into  laughter.  "Alius  is  going  to  be 
married." 

"Alius  married!     Who  to?" 

"You  must  not  laugh,"  said  Molly,  trying  to  keep 
her  face  grave.  "  It  is  really  a  tragedy.  You  see,  they 
have  always  had  a  young  man.  I  expect  you  remember 
seeing  him  when  you  were  staying  here.  He  walked 
out  with  Me  an'  Alius,  and  we  never  knew  which  he 
liked  the  best.    Well,  poor  Me  had  the  measles,  and 


LITTLE    WINGS   OF  ANGELS  327 

during  her  illness  it  appears  that  Spriggins  (that  is  the 
man's  name)  was  very  anxious,  and  came  regularly  to 
the  garden  gate  to  inquire  for  her.  Alius  always  saw 
him,  and  she  seems  to  have  won  his  heart,  for  the  end 
of  it  is  that  they  are  going  to  be  married,  and  Amelia 
is  left  in  the  lurch  !     She  is  most  unhappy  about  it !  " 

"Poor  Arnelia  !  To  be  supplanted  by  her  younger 
sister!"  said  Stephen. 

"You  should  hear  her  on  the  subject,"  said  Phil. 
"She  is  simply  priceless.  She  keeps  on  assuring  us  that 
she  didn't  want  him,  but  of  course  she  did.  '  T'ain't 
as  though  I  wanted  him,'  he  continued,  setting  his 
arms  akimbo  and  dropping  into  the  vernacular.  '  We 
liked  'avin'  a  young  man.  Me  an'  Alius,  to  walk  with  of  a 
Sunday,  and  if  he'd  come  to  me  fair  and  square  and 
above-board,  and  said  as  how  he  wished  to  offer  marriage 
to  me  sister,  I'd  have  said  nothing  '  (you  bet  she  would) ; 
'  but  'twas  me  as  introduced  them  first,  and  them  nasty 
sneakin'  underhand  ways  I  can't  abide,  agoin'  and  fixin' 
of  it  up  when  I  was  laid  up  with  a  face  as  spotty  as 
the  side  of  a:  trout,  and  me  bein'  the  eldest,  and  the 
proper  person  to  be  told  of  such  goin's  on.'" 

"Hush,  Phil,  she'll  hear  you!" 

"Personally,"  continued  the  lad,  regardless  of  the 
interruption,  "I  consider  Spriggins  a  man  of  sense. 
Alius  possesses  one  great  gift,  that  of  silence.  My  only 
wonder  is  how  he  ever  induced  her  to  reply  when  he 
popped  the  question  !  " 

"I  expect  she  can  talk  all  right  when  her  sister  isn't 
there.     Patsy  always  says  she  is  most  amusing." 

"I  can't  imagine  her  being  amusing  under  any 
circumstances.     Amelia  really  has  a  sense  of  humour." 

"And  she  never  stops  talking,"  added  his  mother. 
"Things  are  badly  divided  in  this  world." 

"As  the  woman  said  who  had  twelve  children  and 
only  one  tooth,"  said  Phil  quickly,  "It's  a  case  of  too 
much  of  one  and  not  enough  of  t'other  I  " 


CHAPTER    XXXII 


A   DISCOVERY 


"  For  fortune's  wheel  is  on  the  turn, 
And  some  go  up,  and  some  go  down." 

Mary  Tucker. 

You  may  wander  for  days  in  London  and  never  meet 
a  soul  you  are  really  anxious  to  see,  and  yet  if  you  go 
up  for  a  few  hours  you  invariably  run  against  the  one 
person  of  all  others  you  would  prefer  to  avoid. 

The  laws  of  chance  admit  of  no  explanation,  one  must 
simply  bow  to  their  ruling,  and  it  must  be  acknow- 
ledged that  Stephen's  bow  was  not  exactly  cordial.  He 
had  not  the  smallest  desire  to  see  Flora  Moultrie,  but 
finding  himself  face  to  face  with  her,  as  he  walked  out 
of  the  lawyer's  office,  he  could  do  no  less  than  take  off 
his  hat. 

It  was  not  that  he  disliked  Flora,  but  he  had  an 
inward  conviction  that  she  would  not  view  his  engage- 
ment with  approval,  and  when  she  did  not  approve  of  a 
thing  her  remarks  were  sometimes  scathing. 

"  Hullo,  Stephen !  "  she  said  in  a  most  friendly 
fashion.  "  What  luck  to  meet  you  !  So  you  have  fallen 
a  victim  at  last  1  " 

"Yes;   how  did  you  hear?  " 

"Oh,  it  is  all  over  the  place.  How  do  these  things 
get  about  ?  The  same  old  chattering  little  bird,  I  sup- 
pose.    Well,  I  wish  you  the  best  of  luck  !  " 

"Thanks  very  much,"  he  said,  with  a  little  more 
warmth  in  his  tone.  Flora  was  going  to  be  pleasant, 
after  all. 

"Which  way  are  you  going?"  she  asked,  and  upon 
his  somewhat  inadvisedly  replying,  she  promptly  said 
she  was  going  in  the  same  direction,  and  it  ended  in 
their  taking  a  taxi. 

328 


A  DISCOVERY  829 

"I  suppose  you  think  yourself  very  fortunate,"  she 
remarked  sweetly,  when  they  were  fairly  started. 

"Yes,"  he  replied,  "very  fortunate.  If  you  knew  Miss 
Vincent  you  would  find  her  very  charming." 

"I  have  no  doubt,  and  she  is  certainly  clever." 

There  was  a  little  inflexion  in  her  voice,  which  he 
recognized  meant  that  Flora  was  going  to  be  spiteful, 
and  he  mentally  cursed  his  folly  in  giving  her  this 
opportunity  of  a  tete-a-tete. 

"So  few  women  know  anything  about  household 
affairs  now,  cooking  and  that  sort  of  thing ;  but  I  do 
trust,  Stephen,  you  won't  find  you  would  have  done 
better  to  choose  some  one  si  little  more — well — how  shall 
I  put  it  ? — accustomed  to  the  world  in  which  we  live. 
Your  Martha  is  certainly  charming  and  clever,  but  a 
little — shall  we  say  ? — unsophisticated." 

"Thank  God  for  it!  "  he  retorted. 

"Yes,  by  all  means,"  she  said  pensively.  "But,  do 
you  know,  I  am  really  not  sure  that  kind  of  sentiment 
answers  in  real  life,  from  your  point  of  view,  I  mean. 
You  know  I  was  only  thinking  of  you.  We  have  been 
such  pals.  From  hers,  of  course,  it  is  easily  understood 
— she  has  done  jolly  well  for  herself." 

"I  consider  myself  honoured  that  Miss  Vincent  has 
accepted  me,"  he  said  stiffly. 

Flora  turned  her  head  and  looked  at  him  with  a  kind, 
pitying  expression,  as  though  he  were  a  well-meaning 
but  very  foolish  child. 

"My  dear  Stephen,  you  surely  did  not  think  for  a 
moment  that  she  would  refuse  you  ?  " 

"I  certainly  could  not  be  sure  that  she  cared  for  me." 

"  Perhaps  !  but  refuse  you  !  I  give  her  credit  for 
more  sense.  What  girl  who  had  spent  half  her  life 
scouring  pots  and  pans  would  refuse  a  man  with  your 
income  ?  " 

"You  are  very  much  mistaken  if  you  think  Miss 
Vincent  has  spent  her  life  scouring  pots  and  pans,  as 
you  are  pleased  to  call  it,  or  that  she  is  marrying  me  for 
my  money,"  he  said  hotly. 

"Don't    get  annoyed.      I  am    not   saying   anything 


880  A   DREAM  OF  BLUE   ROSES 

against  her.  I  admire  her  wisdom.  All  women  love 
money,  particularly  when  they  haven't  got  it.  Because 
your  Martha  is  mercenary  like  the  rest  of  her  sex  it 
doesn't  follow  that  she  will  not  make  you  an  excellent 
wife.  Indeed,  I  should  think  that  was  certain  with  her 
previous  experience  in  household  matters  to  guide 
her " 

Stephen  put  his  head  out  of  the  window  and  stopped 
the  driver.  If  he  stayed  another  moment  he  would 
swear  and  say  something  he  would  regret  afterwards. 

As  he  shut  the  door  Flora  leaned  forward.  "  Why  go 
in  such  a  hurry  ?  "  she  asked  sweetly ;  and  then,  as  he 
walked  off,  she  called  after  him,  "Be  sure  and  ask  me 
to  the  wedding  !  " 

"I'll  be  d d  if  I  do !  "  he  said  to  himself  furiously, 

as  he  strode  along.  Vulgar  little  cat !  How  spiteful 
women  can  be  !  " 

Of  course  he  knew  that  you  never  could  believe  a 
word  that  Flora  said  when  she  turned  nasty,  and  of 
course  any  one  who  knew  Barbara  must  know  that  the 
very  idea  of  applying  to  her  the  epithet  mercenary,  was 
positively  laughable  !  The  whole  thing  was  spite,  pure 
and  simple,  and  not  worth  a  moment's  thought,  so  he 
assured  himself ;  but  Flora  Moultrie,  who  might  indeed 
with  considerable  truth  be  designated  a  little  cat,  could 
not  under  any  circumstances  have  been  called  a  fool. 
She  knew  her  man,  and  she  had  winged  her  arrow  with 
just  the  little  weight  of  truth  that  sent  it  well  home. 
The  mere  idea  that  the  fact  of  his  money  would  influence 
the  woman  who  should  be  his  wife  had  always  been 
revolting  to  Stephen,  and  although  he  had  forgotten  it 
in  his  new-found  happiness,  yet  now  Flora's  words 
roused  the  old  doubt.  Again  and  again  he  told  himself 
that  it  was  absurd ;  Barbara  had  not  the  smallest  notion 
what  his  income  was,  he  was  sure  of  it ;  but  again  and 
again  the  germ  of  truth  in  Flora's  statement  forced  itself 
to  the  front. 

"All  women  love  money,  particularly  those  who 
haven't  had  it !  "  And  as  time  went  by  the  drop  of 
venom  in  the  wound  rankled  and  stung,  for  as  day  by 


A   DISCOVERY  881 

day  his  love  for  Barbara  grew  stronger,  so  the  longing 
grew  more  insistent  to  be  sure  that  she  did  not  share 
this  characteristic  of  her  sex,  and  that  her  love  for  him 
was  in  no  way  the  outcome  of  any  attraction  his  money 
might  have  had  for  her. 

He  could  not  doubt  she  loved  him,  and  at  times  when 
he  held  her  in  his  arms  and  her  honest,  fearless  eyes 
looked  into  his  own  he  was  ready  to  swear  that  he  was 
wholly  satisfied,  and  to  curse  himself  for  his  mistrust, 
and  yet  at  another  he  would  torture  himself  afresh.  The 
wedding-day  was  fixed — in  a  few  weeks  she  would  be 
his  absolutely  and  unalterably  and  his  heart  was  to  be 
at  rest — or  so  he  assured  himself. 

The  matter  of  Dick  Arkwright's  inheritance  seemed 
to  be  arranging  itself  satisfactorily.  There  were  certain 
tiresome  formalities  required  by  the  law,  but  once  these 
were  completed  there  was  no  reason  to  anticipate 
further  delay  in  proving  his  right  to  the  succession. 

No  one  had  in  any  way  disputed  his  position  as  next 
of  kin  to  the  dead  man,  and  he  was  beginning  to  make 
plans  for  the  great  change  in  his  circumstances.  It  had 
been  settled  that  he  and  Molly  and  Patsy  were  to  go 
abroad  to  enjoy  some  sunshine  until  such  time  as  the 
weather  permitted  his  undergoing  a  treatment  at  the 
German  health  resort  from  which  his  doctor  expected  he 
would  derive  enormous  benefit. 

Phil  and  the  boys  were  to  travel  for  a  few  months 
under  the  care  and  companionship  of  a  friend  of 
Stephen's,  and  they  were  already  occupying  themselves 
in  looking  out  routes  and  studying  maps.  Nothing  was 
at  present  settled  so  far  as  their  future  was  concerned. 
Lance  stated  openly  that  his  one  wish  was  to  go  to 
Canada  as  soon  as  he  could  persuade  his  father  to  per- 
mit it ;  but  Tony,  who  was  younger  and  not  so  robust, 
would  probably  have  to  continue  his  education  with  a 
tutor  until  he  went  to  the  university. 

Molly  was  never  tired  of  weaving  wonderful  schemes 
for  the  future  of  her  sons,  but  it  was  early  days  yet  to 
come  to  a  decision. 

The  whole  party  had  driven  over  to  Brook  Stretton, 


882  A  DREAM   OF   BLUE   ROSES 

and,  the  younger  ones  especially,  could  think  of  nothing 
but  the  delights  of  the  old  place ;  while  Molly  and  Dick 
sat  hand  in  hand  dreaming  happy  dreams  of  their  life 
in  that  enchanting  domain. 

Some  consternation  had  been  caused  by  Amelia,  who, 
while  weeping  bitterly  at  the  thought  of  being  parted 
from  Patsy,  declined  absolutely  to  accompany  her  to 
what  she  termed  "furrin  parts." 

"  I  never  have  been  on  the  sea,"  she  declared  tearfullv. 
"And  I  never  saw  it  but  once,  and  that  once  was  enough 
for  me.  Cross  it  I  could  not.  'Twas  more  than  enough 
for  me  to  stand  on  Yarmouth  pier  and  see  the  way  them 
nasty  waves  come  choppin'  and  tossin'  !  If  I  was  to  be 
chopped  an'  tossed  like  that  I'd  die,  and  then  a  lot  of 
use  I'd  be  to  Miss  Patsy,  ma'am  !  Give  me  a  grave  in 
solid  ground,  says  I.     I  never  could  abide  drownin'." 

Amelia  had  another  cause  for  distress,  for,  having 
heard  much  of  the  glory  of  Brook  Stretton  she  "didn't 
see  as  it  was  the  place  for  her  !  " 

"You'll  be  havin'  feetmen  and  butlers  and  a  fine 
lady's  maid  and  lots  of  things  as  I  have  never  been 
used  to,  and  I  shan't  be  allowed  to  do  for  you  same  as 
I  have  done,  and  I've  had  enough  o'  men,  and  seems 
to  me,  ma'am,  it  would  be  better  that  I  took  my  month's 
notice." 

In  vain  Molly  assured  her  that  she  had  no  desire  to 
part  with  her.  Amelia,  her  usual  balance  of  mind 
entirely  shattered  by  the  "goin's  on"  of  Alius  and  the 
respectable  Mr.  Spriggins,  refused  to  be  consoled,  and 
it  was  Stephen  who  finally  made  a  suggestion  which 
seemed  almost  an  inspiration.  "Why  shouldn't  Amelia 
go  to  '  Porch  Cottage  '  and  look  after  the  old  ladies  ? " 
She  could  rule  them  with  the  same  kindly  discipline 
which  Molly  had  found  so  bearable,  and  which  had 
answered  so  well  for  all  concerned,  and  Barbara  could 
start  off  on  her  honeymoon  knowing  Miss  Anne  and 
Miss  Margaret  would  be  in  good  hands. 

Strange  to  say,  Amelia  received  the  suggestion  with 
unqualified  approval,  and  so  it  was  arranged.  The  nurse, 
who  was  an  excellent  woman  in  every  way,  would  stay 


A   DISCOVERY  883 

until  Molly  could  spare  Amelia,  so  that  there  was  no 
reason  to  delay  the  marriage. 

It  was  to  take  place  at  the  little  church  at  Fiddler's 
Green,  and,  greatly  to  Miss  Margaret's  disappointment, 
it  was  to  be  a  very  quiet  affair.  No  carriage  with  four 
white  horses,  no  postillions  and  no  favours  !  but  possibly 
some  orange  blossoms.  Mr.  Poole  w^as  to  read  the 
service,  Dick  to  act  father  and  give  the  bride  away,  while 
upon  Patsy  rested  the  heavy  responsibility  of  being  the 
chief  and  only  bridesmaid.  Dear  Miss  Anne's  wedding 
gift  had  taken  the  form  of  a  cheque  which  would  more 
than  suffice  for  the  simple  trousseau,  and  Molly  was 
acting  as  adviser-in-chief  in  the  matter. 

No  one  had  taken  a  more  lively  interest  in  Barbara's 
love  affair  than  Samuel  Dodge,  who  had  not  hesitated 
to  assure  her  that  he  had  "seen  it  coming."  "I  study 
'uman  natur,"  he  said,  with  his  usual  chuckle,  "and 
them  as  makes  a  study  of  it  can  see  through  a  brick  wall 
farther  than  most.  And  I'm  sure  I  wishes  you  well. 
You  an'  Muster  Grant,  too,  for  a  finer  couple  than  you'll 
be  you  won't  find  in  a  day's  march,  as  the  sayin'  is. 
Muster  Grant  he's  a  pleasant,  kind-spoken  gentleman." 
And  then  Sammle  had  rubbed  his  head  with  a  con- 
templative forefinger,  before  continuing  his  line  of 
thought. 

"Well'um,  I  mind  me  well  when  missus  an'  I  was 
courtin',  and  that  weren't  yesterday — not  be  a  week  o' 
Sundays  !  Handsome  young  woman  missus  were,  and 
slim,  though  you  mightn't  think  it  seein'  the  way  she 
have  run  to  flesh  with  advancin'  years.  'Twern't  only 
miself  as  thought  her  'andsome  ! — there  was  others  !  " 
The  old  man's  eyes  twinkled,  "More'n  one  of  them! 
But  Sammle  Dodge  he  up  sides  and  boarded  and  carried 
off  the  prize  !  Aye  !  and  we  ain't  regretted  it  neither, 
which  is  more'n  many  can  say. 

"Well'um,  I  tells  you  this:  married  life,  that's  just 
what  you  makes  it.  Six  of  salt  and  half-a-dozen  of  sugar, 
that's  what  it  is ;  and  love — as  they  talks  so  much  about 
— is  a  wonderful  good  thing  so  long  as  you  leaves  it 
alone.     It's  when  you  begins  a  pickin'  of  it  to  pieces 


884,  A   DREAM   OF   BLUE   ROSES 

and  wondering  whether  it's  this  or  whether  it's  that, 
that  you  find  it  loses  shape.  My  daughter,  she's  a 
dressmaker,  and  she  says  to  me  the  other  day,  '  Dad,' 
says  she,  '  'tis  all  very  well  makin'  a  new  dress — that's 
a  pleasure;  but  when  you  start  a  pickin'  of  it  to  pieces 
and  a  makin'  of  it  up  again,  that's  when  the  trouble 
begins.'  Now  love,  that's  just  the  same.  It's  a  good 
garment  and  it'll  keep  you  warm  all  your  life  as  long 
as  you  don't  keep  a  pickin'  of  it  to  pieces,  and  trying  to 
make  folks  different  from  what  the  Lord  made  'em  ! 
Wrap  yourself  up  in  it,  and  keep  snug,  just  the  two  of 
you,  and  don't  be  thinkin'  all  the  while  whether  it  just 
happens  to  suit  you  or  not." 

It  was  quite  evident  that  Sammle  Dodge  had  not 
studied  "  'uman  natur  "  for  nothing. 

Barbara  sat,  one  afternoon  about  three  weeks  before 
the  day  fixed  for  her  wedding,  at  the  table  by  the  window 
in  the  old  kitchen  which  had  now  so  many  happy  asso- 
ciations for  her.  She  had  been  writing  to  Petite  Mere, 
but  now  she  had  laid  down  her  pen  and  leaned  back  in 
her  chair  thinking  of  many  things. 

There  was  no  doubt  that  her  thoughts  were  very 
happy,  for  her  eyes  shone  like  stars  and  her  mouth 
curved  in  a  little  tender  smile. 

She  was  reviewing  the  events  of  the  past  year.  Only 
a  year  ago  she  had  not  known  her  native  land.  She 
had  been  contemplating  the  advisability  of  embarking 
on  a  great  enterprise  in  search  of  that  non-existent 
fortune  upon  which  she  had  counted  so  certainly.  Then 
- — she  had  left  home.  She  recalled  her  journey  across 
the  Channel  and  her  first  sight  of  Stephen,  of  his 
apologetic  face  as  he  disentangled  her  from  the  folds 
of  Le  Petit  Journal.  She  would  hardly  have  believed 
any  one  who  had  told  her  he  was  to  be  her  husband ! 

And  now — he  had  all  her  heart. 

She  thought  of  her  visit  to  the  lawyer,  and  even  still 
her  cheeks  burned  at  the  remembrance  of  it :  her  dis- 
appointment, the  loneliness  and  misery  of  her  time  in 
London,  the  kindly  welcome  of  dear  Molly  and  Dick, 
and    the  nightmare  of   her  days   with  Mrs.   Septimus 


A  DISCOVERY  885 

Waghorn  and  the  odious  Clarence.  How  furious 
Stepiien  had  been  when  she  told  him  about  that !  He 
had  refused  to  see  any  cause  for  amusement,  and  yet, 
as  she  looked  back,  time  had  so  changed  the  perspective 
that  she  was  ready  to  laugh  at  her  exp)erience. 

After  that — her  arrival  at  the  "  Porch  Cottage  "  and  all 
the  events  which  had  led  up  to  her  present  joy.  She 
had  seen  John  Strong  only  yesterday,  and  he  congratu- 
lated her  with  such  evident  sincerity.  She  did  hope  he 
would  find  a  nice  wife  very  soon. 

She  looked  round  the  old  room  and  thought  of  the 
little  house  at  Le  Petit  Andely,  and  of  dear  P^re  Joseph, 
and  of  Petite  Mere — Petite  Mere  whom  she  would  see 
very  soon  now !  Only  three  weeks  before  she  was 
Stephen's  wife,  and  he  would  take  her  to  Cherie  before 
they  started  on  their  wanderings. 

She  had  not  found  her  Petite  Fortune,  not  in  the  way 
she  had  expected,  but  she  had  found  fortune  beyond 
her  wildest  imaginings  in  the  great  love  that  had  come 
to  her,  and  although  she  and  Petite  Mere  would  never 
journey  together  as  they  had  planned,  yet  perhaps 
Cherie  had  been  right  when  she  said  she  w^as  too  old 
to  wander — that  for  her  her  own  hearthstone  was  best, 
and  she  and  Stephen  were  going  together  to  see  all  the 
wonders  of  the  world. 

Her  Blue  Roses  had  bloomed,  truly — not  just  as  she 
had  dreamed,  but  infinitely  more  beautiful.  Was  there 
another  girl  in  all  the  world  upon  whom  blessings  had 
been  poured  as  upon  her  ? 

Surely  not !  Her  cup  of  happiness  was  full  to  the 
brim. 

She  heard  a  step  behind  her  and  felt  a  hand  laid  upon 
her  head. 

"Dreaming,  darling?"  asked  Stephen.  "Happy 
dreams  ?  " 

"So  happy  I "  she  replied.  "I  did  not  hear  you 
come." 

"I  must  just  run  up  and  ask  Aunt  Anne  something," 
he  said.     "I  want  her  to  read  a  letter  before  the  post 


886  A  DREAM   OF   BLUE   ROSES 

goes.  I  will  be  back  in  a  few  minutes.  I  have  brought 
you  the  St.  Ethel's  paper.  There  is  a  bit  about  Dick 
and  Brook  Stretton  which  will  amuse  you." 

Barbara  put  away  her  writing  things,  and  then  she 
picked  up  the  paper  and  began  to  read. 

The  paragraph  ran  as  follows — 

"VVe  learn  with  great  pleasure  that  Mr.  Richard  Ark- 
wright  of  the  '  White  House  '  succeeds  to  the  fortune 
and  property  of  the  late  Mr.  Francis  Brook  of  Brook 
Stretton,  and  we  tender  him  our  hearty  congratulations 
on  the  splendid  inheritance  which  has  fallen  to  his  lot. 
The  fortune,  we  are  credibly  informed,  is  considerable, 
amounting  to  nearly  a  quarter  of  a  million  of  money, 
and  the  property,  which  occupies  some  five  hundred 
acres  on  the  borders  of  the  adjoining  county,  is  justly 
famed  for  its  beauty.  The  mansion  of  Brook  Stretton 
dates  back  to  Tudor  times,  and  is  a  rare  and  perfect 
example  of  the  domestic  architecture  of  the  period.  VVe 
understand  that  Mr.  Arkwright  was  only  distantly 
related  to  the  deceased  gentleman  and  inherits  as  next 
of  kin,  and  it  is  curious  to  notice  how  once  more  history 
has  repeated  itself.  Some  of  our  older  readers  may  per- 
haps remember  that  upon  the  last  occasion  of  the  death 
of  the  owner  no  will  was  forthcoming  and  it  was  some 
time  before  the  heir  could  be  traced.  Finally  he  was 
found  in  Mr.  Francis  Clapperton  Verroll,  a  representa- 
tive of  a  distant  branch  of  the  family,  who  upon  succes- 
sion changed  his  name  to  Brook.  This  gentleman 
seldom  resided  at  Brook  Stretton,  allowing  the  estate 
to  fall  into  disrepair  and  earning  for  himself  the  reputa- 
tion of  being  somewhat  eccentric.  There  was  a  rumour 
current  many  years  ago  that  he  had  contracted  a  marriage 
early  in  life,  but  as  no  evidence  of  this  seems  to  exist 
we  trust  that  Mr.  Arkwright  may  be  left  in  undisputed 
possession  of  his  noble  heritage,  and  that  he  may  im- 
prove in  health  and  live  to  restore  Brook  Stretton  to  its 
former  magnificence." 

"  Francis  Clapperton  Verroll  I     Why,  surely  that  was 


A  DISCOVERY  887 

the  name  of  the  man  who  was  married  in  the  church  in 
Smithfield  where  the  martyrs  were  burnt  at  the  stake  !  " 

The  girl's  first  thought  was,  "How  curious  if  I 
should  be  in  some  way  related  to  Molly  !  "  Then  she 
read  the  paragraph  through  again,  and  yet  a  third  time, 
with  a  frown  puckering  her  forehead  and  her  eyes  dark 
with  bewilderment. 

She  laid  the  paper  down,  and  walking  to  a  drawer  took 
out  the  old  journal  and  found  the  entry  written  in  the 
straggling  childish  handwriting — 

"I  saw  Mamma's  name  in  the  big  book  where  they 
write  the  marriages.  Her  name  before  she  was  married 
was  Prudence  Eager,  and  she  married  Papa,  Francis 
Clapperton  Verroll,  on  March  12,  1861." 


CHAPTER   XXXIII 

Barbara's  fortune 

"  Love  is  the  centre  and  circumference 
The  cause  and  aim  of  all  things — 'tis  the  key 
To  joy  and  sorrow,  and  the  recompense 
For  all  the  ills  that  have  been,  or  may  be. 

Love  is  the  only  thing  that  pays  for  birth, 

Or  makes  death  welcome.    Oh  !  dear  God  above 

This  beautiful  but  sad  perplexing  earth, 

Pity  the  hearts  that  know — or  know  not — Love." 

Ella  Wheeler  Wilcox. 

"  Barbara  !  Dearest !  What  in  the  world  is  the 
matter  ?  " 

Stephen  uttered  a  cry  of  alarm  as  he  entered.  The 
girl  was  standing  quite  still,  her  hands  resting  on  the 
page  of  a  book  which  lay  upon  the  table ;  her  head  turned 
to  the  window,  her  eyes  were  looking  out  upon  the  leaf- 
less orchard  trees — gazing  intently,  with  a  strange, 
inward  look,  as  though  she  saw  something  that  filled 
her  with  dismay.  He  could  see  that  her  breath  was 
coming  very  quickly,  as  though  she  were  terrified. 

He  moved  to  her  side  and  glanced  out.  But,  no  ! 
There  was  nothing  unusual  to  be  seen — only  bare  wav- 
ing boughs  and  frosted  grass,  and  in  the  distance  old 
Sammle  sweeping  the  path. 

He  put  his  arm  round  her.  "Tell  me  what  has  hap- 
pened," he  said.  "Whatever  the  trouble  is,  let  me 
share  it." 

The  words  pierced  through  the  tumult  in  the  girl's 
mind.  Yes !  Stephen  was  right.  She  must  not  keep 
it  from  him.  He  had  a  right  to  know — and  he  would 
help  her. 

She  turned  and  picked  up  the  paper,  and  with  her 
finger  she  pointed  to  the  printed  words. 

338 


BARBARA'S   FORTUNE  889 

"Francis  Clapperton  Verroll,"  he  read.  "Well, 
dearest,  what  of  him  ? "  he  asked,  completely  puzzled 
as  to  her  meaning,  as  well  he  might  be. 

Barbara  moistened  her  dry  lips. 

"I  think,"  she  said  slowly,  "that  he  was  my  grand- 
father." 

"Your  grandfather!  " 

SRe  nodded.     "Will  you  please  read  this." 

She  held  out  the  album,  and  he  took  it  from  her  hand 
and  read  where  she  indicated. 

Then  he  raised  his  head,  and  looked  at  her  in  silence 
for  a  long  moment. 

"  Whose  book  was  this  ?     Who  was  Mary  Verroll  ?  " 

"My  mother." 

"  How  do  you  know  ?  " 

For  answer,  she  walked  again  to  the  drawer  from  which 
she  had  taken  the  book,  and  returned  with  some  papers 
tied  together  with  a  faded  ribbon.  Selecting  one,  she 
laid  it  before  him. 

It  was  a  certificate  of  marriage  between  Mary  Verroll 
and  John  Stewart  Vincent. 

When  he  had  read  it  she  replaced  it  with  a  second — 
the  certificate  of  baptism  of  Barbara  Claudia  Vincent, 
child  of  John  Stewart  Vincent  and  Mary  his  wife. 

He  passed  his  hand  across  his  forehead,  too  utterly 
astonished  for  words. 

"It  is  quite  clear,  isn't  it,  Stephen?"  she  asked. 

"  I  think  it  is  quite  clear,"  he  answered  in  a  perfectly 
toneless  voice. 

"  What  does  it  mean  ?  " 

"  Mean  !  Why,  it  means  that  if  these  proofs  hold  good 
you  are  the  next-of-kin  to  your  grandfather,  Francis 
Clapperton  Verroll,  or  Francis  Brook,  as  he  is  generally 
called,  and  that  the  whole  of  his  property  comes  to  you." 

"The  whole  of  it?" 

He  looked  at  her  curiously.     What  an  odd  question. 

"The  whole  of  it.  You  would  be  sole  heiress,  unless, 
of  course,  you  had  any  brothers  and  sisters.  In  that 
case,  I  am  not  sure  of  the  law,  but  I  fancy  it  would  be 
apportioned  between  you." 


840  A  DREAM   OF   BLUE   ROSES 

"No  one  else  would  have  any  of  it?  " 

"Certainly  not." 

"  How  could  I  find  out  if  these  proofs  were  correct  ?  " 

"It  is  quite  simple.  If  your  grandparents  were 
married  in  St.  Bartholomew's,  Smithfield,  it  could  be 
proved  by  searching  the  register." 

"And  then?" 

"You  would  have  to  verify  these  other  certificates,  I 
suppose.     That  would  be  all." 

"  Is  it  only  by  these  certificates  that  it  can  be  proved  ?  " 

"  How  do  you  mean  ?  " 

"I  mean — have  the  lawyers  any  other  way  of  finding 
out  that  my  grandfather  was  married  ?  " 

"They  won't  know,  unless  you  tell  them.  But  you'll 
have  to  tell  them.  They  can't  search  the  registers  of 
every  church  in  England,  and,  for  the  matter  of  that, 
they  are  not  certain  that  he  really  was  ever  married." 

"These  papers  are  mine?" 

"Of  course.  No  one  else  has  the  slightest  right  to 
them." 

His  eyes  were  searching  her  face.  What  was  in  her 
mind  ?  This  slip  of  a  girl,  who  did  not  seem  in  the  least 
elated  or  excited  at  this  stupendous  discovery,  and — 
all  women  loved  money  !  Rather  did  she  seem  troubled 
and  very  thoughtful,  as  she  put  question  after  question 
and  listened  attentively  to  his  replies. 

Suddenly  she  moved,  and  walking  across  the  room  she 
pulled  out  the  damper  over  the  stove.  A  perfectly 
pointless  action,  he  thought,  but  probably  she  did  it 
unconsciously. 

"  Barbara !  Do  you  understand  what  this  means  ? 
You  will  be  a  very  rich  woman." 

"No,"  she  answered,  quietly  but  quite  decidedly,  "I 
shall  never  be  that." 

"You  can't  avoid  it.     When  your  right  is  proved " 

"It  will  never  be  proved." 

"But  it  must." 

"It  will  not."  With  a  quick  movement  she  tore  the 
page  from  the  album  and  folded  it  together  with  the 
other  papers. 


BARBARA'S  FORTUNE  841 

"Stephen,  mon  cher  !  You  understand.  I  am  going 
to  burn  these." 

He  made  a  quick  movement  forward,  but  controlled 
himself  immediately.  The  child  did  not  know  what  she 
was  doing.  How  could  he  allow  her  to  throw  away  a 
fortune  absolutely  regardless  of  its  importance. 

"No  !  "  he  said  sharply.     "You  can't  do  that !  " 

"I  am  going  to  burn  them.  Oh,  Stephen!  Don't 
you  see  that  it  is  the  only  thing  possible  !  " 

"I  see  it  is  impossible." 

She  drew  a  step  nearer  to  him.  "Just  think  of  what 
it  means  !  "  she  said  quickly.  "Just  think  of  Dick  and 
Molly  and  the  children." 

"It  does  not  belong  to  them.     It  belongs  to  you." 

And  because  he  was  fighting  hard  to  subdue  the  flood 
of  passionate  admiration  and  remorse  which  was  surging 
in  his  heart,  his  voice  sounded  cold  and  stern,  and 
because  his  whole  soul  applauded  her  decision,  he  argued 
against  it  with  still  greater  vehemence. 

"It  can  never  belong  to  me  !  " 

"You  don't  know  what  you  are  doing!  You  can't 
throw  away  a  vast  fortune,  as  if  it  were  an  old 
glove !  " 

"Oh  !  do  you  not  see "     Barbara  faltered. 

"I  see  you  have  no  earthly  right  to  be  foolishly 
quixotic  !  " 

Her  lip  quivered.  Why  did  Stephen  stand  there  with 
his  arms  folded,  and  look  at  her  with  eyes  that  were  so 
cold  and  hard  ?  And  she  did  not  know  the  meaning 
of  quixotic  !  She  had  never  heard  it  before,  but  it  must 
surely  be  something  dreadful,  since  he  said  it  in  that 
tone  of  voice. 

"You  said  yourself  that  money  was  not  everything,'* 
she  said  pleadingly. 

"This  is  a  fortune  !  " 

"Stephen  !  "  She  hesitated,  and  her  voice  dropped 
almost  to  a  whisper.  "Can  it  be — is  it  possible — that 
you  want  it  yourself  ?  " 

"  Few  men  would  object  to  a  quarter  of  a  million  !  '* 
he  answered  shortly. 


842  A  DREAM   OF   BLUE   ROSES 

She  came  still  closer.  "  I  did  not  think  of  that,"  she 
said  simply.  "  I  had  always  thought  that  you  had  suffi- 
cient; you  did  not  seem  to  be  in  need  of  anything,  and 
you  said  it  would  be  easy  for  us  to  travel,  and  see  things, 
but  if  that  is  so,  it  does  not  make  any  difference.  It 
must  go  to  Dick  and  Molly.  We  will  not  go,  we  will 
give  up  the  journey ;  what  does  it  matter  ?  and,  if  we 
are  poor,  well !  we  are  young  and  strong,  and  Dick  is 
ill,  and  there  are  the  children.  Stephen  !  Don't  look 
at  me  like  that !  !  You  know  how  I  love  you  !  We 
will  be  together.  The  money  can  make  no  difference. 
Oh  1  say  it  can  make  no  difference  !  " 

"And — if  it  does  make  a  difference?"  The  words 
dropped  slowly  from  his  lips. 

She  turned  and  picked  up  the  little  packet  from  the 
table,  where  she  had  laid  it  down. 

Then  she  faced  him,  standing  quite  erect,  with  the  tears 
brimming  in  her  eyes. 

"  I  could  never  take  it.  If  all  my  happiness  depended 
on  it,  I  could  never  rob  my  friends  of  all  this  means 
to  them.  I  am  sorry !  so  deeply  sorry  that  you  do  not 
see  it.  I  had  so  hoped  that — you  would — always — 
understand." 

She  walked  to  the  hearth,  and,  taking  up  the  iron, 
opened  the  door  of  the  stove  and  dropped  the  packet 
into  the  red  heart  of  the  fire.  The  door  shut  with  a 
dull,  reverberating  clang,  the  flames  roared  up  the 
chimney,  and  Barbara  stood  quite  still.  The  tears  were 
coursing  down  her  cheeks  now,  but  she  did  not  raise 
a  hand  to  brush  them  away.  Her  world  seemed  to  have 
fallen  to  pieces.  All  the  glow  of  hope  and  joy  had  faded 
into  dust  and  ashes,  like  the  fortune  she  had  sacrificed 
against  his  will. 

Another  moment,  and  Stephen's  arms  were  round  her 
and  his  kisses  raining  upon  her  cheeks — her  eyes — her 
hair. 

"  My  love  !  My  little  love  !  My  splendid  Barbara  ! 
Forgive  me  I     Oh,  forgive  me  !  " 

"You  are  not  angry?     Oh,  you  are  not  angry?" 

"Angry  I  "  he  cried,  with  a  little  sound  that  was  half 


BARBARA'S   FORTUNE  343 

a  sob.  "Angry?  My  dear,  my  dear!  Can  you  for- 
give me?  " 

"  I  ?  "  she  said  tenderly.     "  I  have  nothing  to  forgive." 

"  Barbara  !  I  doubted  you  !  Blind  fool  that  I  was  ! 
You  gave  me  your  heart,  and  I  could  not  believe  that 
it  w^as  the  purest,  grandest  thing,  the  most  flawless  gift ! 
Teach  me,  oh,  teach  me  to  be  worthy  of  it,  Barbara  ! 
Worthy  of  your  love  and  all  that  love  should  mean  !  " 

"I,  too,  must  learn,"  she  said  thoughtfully.  "We 
will  learn  it  together,  thou  and  I,  since  it  is  Love  that 
has  made  us  one." 

The  winter  daylight  faded,  slowly  the  shadows  crept 
across  the  old  room,  and  the  darkness  fell,  but  the  two 
who  sat  together  on  the  oak  settle  heeded  it  not  at  all. 
Around  them  shone  the  light  that  never  was  on  sea  or 
land,  for  Love  was  absolute. 


THE  END 


Richard  Clay  &  Sons,  Limited, 

brunswick  street,  stamford  street,  s.k. 

and  bungay,  suffolk. 


n". 


A     000  130  984     8 


